


Every Me and Every You

by osaki_nana_707



Category: Inception (2010), Mysterious Skin (2005)
Genre: Character Death, Crossover, M/M, Molestation, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 91,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osaki_nana_707/pseuds/osaki_nana_707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was January. New York had been pelted with snow, but Neil began his trek home from the sub sandwich place anyway, wearing a threadbare coat he'd pilfered from a goodwill that didn't really keep out much of the cold. He didn't hunker down into the hood of the coat like most of the people on the streets would, instead choosing to let the temperature seep into his bones and numb him, comfortable in the feeling of absolute nothingness.

He chewed on his bottom lip, digging chapped skin off of it with his two front teeth until he could taste blood. He had a lot of things on his mind, but he chose not to address them directly, instead gazing over the few huddled forms moving quickly around him seeking out the closest, warmest shelter. He gave a momentary pause to a man in a black coat who was just leaving a nearby bar, waving goodbye to a couple of other folks before starting across the street only because he was headed in Neil's direction.

Neil turned his head away before the man could catch him staring and picked up his feet again. He only got about six steps before a hand was clapping onto his shoulder. "Hey, mate—" a voice said, but Neil had immediately gone into flight-or-fight mode, swinging around in a panic.

He never used to panic like this.

It was, of course, the man in the black coat, but this man was not the one Neil had imagined him to be in those few seconds nor was there any reason for him to be. He was just a man, a bit older than Neil, but not by much, snow peppering his dark hair and expression surprised. Even in the darkness Neil knew the guy was good looking (strictly in an aesthetic sense), that he'd never seen a mouth like that on a guy before, but that didn't mean he didn't consider him a threat.

He never used to consider anyone a threat.

"I'm… sorry," the man said, raising his hands in defense. Neil realized he had his fists ready in case he really did want to mug him ( _or worse_ , his brain automatically supplied, the damned thing). "Look, I was just looking for the nearest tube station. Could you help me?"

It took Neil several seconds to realize what he was talking about. "The subway?" he parroted dumbly. He wanted to run away, but it felt like his feet had been nailed to the ground.

"Yeah, yeah, that, sorry," the man in the coat replied, smiling crooked teeth that just caught the light of the nearby streetlamp. "I forget what you Americans call things sometimes."

Neil didn't respond to that, but he did take note of the accent. Somewhere in Europe, he guessed, kind of James Bond-y.

"So, ah…" he said, and Neil remembered that the guy had been asking him for directions.

"I'm going there now," Neil automatically said. "You can follow or… whatever…"

It seemed like a pretty stupid idea as soon as it escaped his lips, but Neil had been all kinds of stupid lately, so he figured he might as well. This person would be following him down dark streets and they'd be alone, so really he could do anything and no one would know. He was bigger than Neil (though not taller) so he could probably overwhelm him. Sure, Neil had a switchblade in his pocket (a Christmas gift from Eric), but for all Neil knew this guy had a gun.

Manic, he momentarily entertained the idea that he _wanted_ this man to do something to him, to throw him against a brick wall of a back alley, fuck him until he bled, throw him down on the ground and fire bullets into his head, chest, and dick. Pop. Pop. Pop. He wasn't sure why he thought of it, or why it nearly caused a nervous laugher to bubble out of him, but he crammed the thought down into the deepening abyss in his brain, the place where he kept the aliens and coach and the shower in Brighton Beach.

Mr. Black Coat followed Neil the whole time but never did a thing, only coming up to stand next to him when they'd gotten to the subway station. There Neil could see him in the light, could see his gray eyes and brown hair and plush lips and cheekbones and stubble all in full. Neil momentarily watched him, wary, while the other man stared up at the subway train map, jolting a little when his eyes turned on him.

"Mate, are you all right?" he asked.

"Fine," Neil replied, "and I'm not your mate."

"Fair enough," he shrugged. "Thanks anyway for leading me here then. I'm afraid this is my first job stateside, so I'm a bit bollocksed over getting from A to B."

"Whatever," Neil mumbled, looking at the floor. A quick glance at his watch revealed that his particular train didn't depart for another ten minutes.

"You sure you're all right then?"

Neil looked back up, eyebrows furrowing a little, and he asked, "Why?"

"You're shivering terribly," the man said.

"I'm fine," Neil replied, wrapping his arms around himself as if just now remembering he was cold. "It's none of your business anyway."

Neil recieved in response a nod and shrug before the gray eyes were turning back to the map as he searched out the right train. "I'm Eames, by the way," he said idly.

Neil blinked, rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip to swipe away any extra blood blooming where he'd gnawed on it and said, "Neil."

A moment of silence passed between them and Neil thought that it should have been his cue to haul himself away from there, get on the train, go home, and crawl in bed with Wendy, but for some reason he just kept standing there, waiting for something to happen.

"So where are you going then?" Neil asked suddenly and had to resist the urge to clamp his hands over his mouth for being an idiot.

"Back to my hotel," Eames said. "Why, is that where you're heading? You don't sound like you're from New York."

"I live here," Neil said, all the while thinking _stupid, stupid, stupid_. It was like he was _asking_ this man to follow him home and do worse than mug him. Again he thought that perhaps he _wanted_ it, no…

He…

He looked up, eyes wide and wild when he realized he was being wrapped in something. Eames had pulled off his coat and put it over Neil's shoulders and was staring at him as if waiting for something. "You're shaking like a leaf," he said.

The warmth caught Neil off guard, instantly switching his brain back on. He hadn't realized just how numbed he was until the warmth seeped back in, causing his extremities to ache a little. He looked at Eames, Eames in the striped shirt the color of raspberries and his gator shoes, Eames whose coat had a vague tracing of an unrecognizable cologne and the scent of cigarettes, Eames who was showing him some kindness for no reason at all, and Neil grew frustrated. It frustrated him because he couldn't find Eames's angle in all of this or what he wanted out of Neil because men always wanted something out of Neil.

"There, that's a bit better," Eames said, a smile working its way onto his face. "You've got a bit of your color back now."

"What hotel are you staying at?" Neil asked, meeting his gaze with an intensity that caused Eames's grin to falter.

"Why?" Eames asked.

"I want to come too."

Neil figured that nothing could be taken that was given out willingly. Eames wasn't typically his type (way too young), but he wasn't going to allow the man the upper hand here.

It was Neil's job to stay in control.

* * *

Neil had settled in across from Eames on the train, still burrowed into the warm black coat, and Eames stared at him with a vexed expression, as if trying to figure out some sort of problem etched on his forehead. The train car was empty save for the two of them and a homeless man snoozing at the other end, so it seemed like Eames was willing to venture out and make conversation.

"You know… I only let you come along because there wasn't much of a way to stop you from getting on the tube… and there is the fact that you haven't returned my coat yet, but ah… what exactly is taking place here? What are we doing?"

Neil scoffed. "Are you really that stupid?"

Eames sat back, crossing his legs. His socks were red. "I don't recall propositioning you for sex, or anything for that matter I might add. That's not to say you're not an attractive bloke, but it's not normally my habit to take home strangers I met on the street for a little fooling around."

"Do you normally let strangers lead you places?" Neil asked.

"Okay, you got me there, but I didn't exactly ask you to lead me here. I was just looking for directions. Besides, I wasn't too worried because you look so frightened—"

"I wasn't _frightened_ ," Neil interrupted with a sneer. "You can't just expect me to trust you aren't going to do something to me, coming up to me in the street in the middle of the night."

"You can't trust me," Eames said flatly, "yet you've invited yourself back to my room for sex."

"Do you honestly not want to fuck me?" Neil asked as if the answer was obvious, looking about a moment away from rolling his eyes. "Honestly."

Eames looked at Neil, and for a moment Neil felt the urge to sit up straight, to let his legs fall open in the attempt to give off the airs he was supposed to. He figured he didn't look quite like the hustler he was supposed to be, curled up in another man's jacket like it was the only thing keeping him on the train. At that moment he couldn't figure out just why he was there at all. He hadn't hustled since the night before Christmas Eve, the night before Brian, and surprisingly enough hadn't really wanted to… and yet, here he was, with a guy that wasn't even his type, going back to his hotel room after having _invited himself_.

Eames cleared his throat and looked off to the side, checking to make sure no one was listening to them. Neil could see a tint of pink on his cheeks that wasn't caused by the cold. "Is there somebody I can call to come and get you?" he asked, and Neil nearly fell out of his seat.

"What the fuck?" he asked, standing up, grabbing hold of the rail to keep from toppling over.

"Look, I don't mean to cause offense," Eames said, raising his hands again as if Neil was going to jump him. "I'm just not in the business of bringing home prostitutes, especially when I'm on the job and _especially_ when I didn't ask to start with. You understand that, don't you?"

"It's never stopped anyone before," Neil growled, feeling his face screw up into something ugly. He didn't even know why he was mad, at least not at first. It struck him a moment or two later though that he'd never not been wanted before. "Who said I'm a prostitute? And who said I needed _you_ to proposition _me_ first? Maybe I was propositioning you and was under the impression you were for it!"

"I just asked you for directions!" Eames cried as if Neil was the one acting insane. Maybe he was, but he didn't care.

The train screeched as it pulled to a stop and Neil threw Eames's coat into his face. "Fine. Go fuck yourself," he spat, turning on his heel and grabbing hold of the doors as if to push them open more quickly.

"Wait, wait!" Eames shouted after him, but Neil went up the steps two at a time, escaping the smell of piss and Eames in the terminal below. The cold practically ripped through his thin jacket, and if he had been a weaker person he might have cried out. As it was, he started pushing forward, trying to get as far from Eames and his failure as possible. He wanted to go curl up next to Wendy, next to anybody really, feel a body against his, and to forget that anyone had ever taken away his control.

He wanted to forget that he'd ever been hurt, to forget that he'd recognized that brokenhearted expression Brian had worn that night while the carolers sang.

He didn't get far.

Eames, he knew it was Eames because he recognized the grip, grabbed hold of his wrist, and he was shouting, "For the love of God, stop! Jesus Christ, what is the matter with you?"

Neil turned around, and through the blur in his eyes he realized that a blizzard had blown in, and he was standing in it. "What's the matter with _you_?" he yelled back, voice feeling like it was ripped out of him rather than offered up freely. "Leave me alone!"

"You'll freeze to death if I let you go," Eames said, holding his wrist just a little tighter. "Come back to the hotel and I'll call you a cab if you want to leave so badly."

"You're the one who wants me to leave!" Neil kept screaming just because it felt so good to scream at someone. "Fuck you! Fuck!"

"Calm down."

"Fuck off, I am calm!" he shrieked, and it almost felt like a good hit off of a good drug to be able to shout like this, to not care who heard, to not care how it cut. He savored in the burn of his throat, in the way his voice came out raw, as if it had been crawling over shards of glass before. "I don't give a shit if you want me to be calm! You don't know me! I don't give a fuck!"

"Please," Eames begged, and he let go of his wrist, cupping Neil's face in his hands for some reason.

…and then he said… "It's all right. It's okay."

"Wh… what…" Neil tried to say, and that was when he realized it.

He was _crying_.

He hadn't cried since that night after…

Neil tried to force it back, but it only seemed to come out more adamantly, and he started to sob and shake. He had no idea where it was coming from or why it was happening, but he couldn't stop it and that made it even worse because he had never been so out of control by his own volition before. When Eames took him into his arms, he tried to push him away, but it was halfhearted at best.

"Come on," Eames said softly, "tell me what's going on, yeah? What's hurting you?"

Neil felt like he was melting into Eames's body, the heat of it consuming him and his tears, and he hated it because it made him want to answer the man when he didn't actually have one. Eames turned him slowly so that he was next to him, keeping one arm wrapped around him as he led him back down the sidewalk until they reached the hotel entryway.

"Let's just get you inside for a few minutes, see if you feel better," Eames said, and Neil didn't know what else to do but follow.

* * *

The hotel room was typical of its kind if not a little nicer than Neil was used to. By the time they'd gotten up the elevator and inside he had stopped crying at least, but he felt drained from it, exhausted and dried up.

Eames set down the briefcase he'd been carrying on the table in the corner, tossing his coat on top of it. Neil could appreciate that the room was warm at least.

There was a beat where they just stood there staring at each other, and then Eames offered a tight half-smile, brushing away one last stray tear. "Do you feel a bit better now?" he asked.

Neil looked at the floor because he wasn't sure how to answer that question.

"Okay," Eames said when he realized he wasn't getting a response. "Are you hungry? I can order up some room service."

Neil looked up at Eames through his lashes and mumbled, "Okay…"

Eames nodded awkwardly and went to pick up the phone. Neil shrugged off his bag, digging out a cigarette and lighter before tossing it on the floor. He lit one up and shoved the lighter into the pocket of his jeans and turned around to find Eames hanging up the phone. "Should be a few minutes," he told Neil, staring not at him but at the cigarette. After a beat, he asked, "Mind if I…?"

Neil took a drag off of it then handed it over to let Eames take one too. "Mm, thanks," he said, smiling. "Needed that. Haven't had one since before the plane ride, you know?"

Neil nodded, taking it back. For a moment he entertained the idea that he could taste Eames's saliva on the end of it, but he couldn't really.

"So, ah… you want to tell me what that was all about?" Eames asked hesitantly, as if his words were traipsing across mine fields.

Neil shrugged his shoulders a little. "I don't know…" It wasn't much of an answer, but it was all he had. He took another drag on the cigarette before saying, "Why'd you chase after me?"

Eames sniffed. "Honestly? No idea. I guess I noticed how… upset you were and I felt bad. I didn't mean to make you feel rejected or slighted. I didn't realize I was giving off any signals to you. It was my mistake."

"You weren't," Neil said, handing back the cigarette. It made his lungs sting. "I just haven't had a good fuck in a while. I'm beginning to feel like no one wants me anymore." He wandered over to the window, parting the curtains to stare at the city skyline as snow ravaged it. He remembered how it had fallen that night when Wendy and he had stood before the drive-in theater screen and pretended to hear the voice of God. Neil wondered what that pretend voice had been saying then, those years ago. Perhaps it was chastising Neil or even warning him.

"I… I didn't mean to mistake you for a prostitute."

"Oh, that's fine too," Neil sighed. "It's one of the ways I've made money in the past. Haven't been doing it since Christmas though."

"T'is the season," Eames snorted. Neil thought that should have enraged him, but for some reason he was a little charmed. He looked over his shoulder at the man, grinning a little.

"You know… I do think I know why I chased after you," Eames said. Neil turned to face him, pressing his shoulder blades against the glass behind him, intrigued by the cold on his back versus the heat from his front. It was almost like being wrapped in Eames's arms again.

"I do believe I let you come along, that I chased you, all that for the same reason. It's those eyes of yours."

"You're not going to start waxing poetic, are you?" Neil huffed, grin widening a little. Eames's expression seemed to warm from watching him smile.

"Not at all," Eames assured him. "It's just… there's something so sad there, you know? I was worried about you. Someone with eyes like that has been hurt by someone, and you looked like you were about to let it bubble over. I just… I had to make sure you were somewhere safe or my conscience would never let me sleep again."

Neil shoved off from the window and came closer to Eames, but he didn't remember walking there. It was as though he'd been pulled. Still, when he got close to him, he opened his mouth to say something and nothing would come out. He didn't even know why he was there.

"You know," Eames said, voice low as he stared at Neil, reaching up to brush a stray hair aside, "I suppose I can see why you sold your body. You are quite beautiful… with a face like that though, I would have thought you'd have found something better."

"I sold myself because I wanted to," Neil said quietly. It almost felt like if they were to talk any louder, the room would swallow them up.

"Surely you're better than that, darling."

"Not really," Neil said and leaned in to kiss him just because he wanted to. It took a few moments, but Eames tilted his head and let him, kissing back in a surprisingly gentle way. Neil had been in the habit of hooking up with men who A) were incredibly quick and rough about everything, or B) slow because they had no idea what the fuck they were doing. The way Eames kissed lended to experience but didn't have the heat or desperation in it that Neil was used to, so he wasn't quite sure where to take it.

Eames pulled away after a few minutes, breathing just the slightest bit labored, and Neil blinked as if waking up from a dream. "What…" he started to say, wondering why he was teasing him now, why he stopped, and then Eames was going to the door and opening it, pulling in a cart with food on it.

Neil hadn't even heard them knock. Had that ever happened before?

* * *

Neil picked at his food while Eames finished his rather quickly, and neither of them talked about the kiss. It seemed like one was waiting for the other to mention it, and so they sat in silence for the entirety of the late dinner. Afterwards, Eames excused himself to take a shower, and Neil definitely was not going to go into any bathroom with any man, so he stayed in the main room, snooping through Eames's stuff while the man was gone.

At one point, he popped open Eames's briefcase to find, oddly enough, another briefcase inside. The briefcase was silver and polished and looked almost to be out of an alien spaceship. He didn't let that thought carry to far, considering the connotations, but he did open it and find and an even more alien contraption inside of it. Wires and plastic and buttons and screws. He had no idea what any of it did.

The shower shut off.

He shut the case and then the second one and threw himself onto the bed. He wasn't about to let himself get caught looking through Eames's things. He didn't want Eames to get angry because then he might do something.

Still, he must have had some odd form of trust in Eames, because when his body connected with the mattress, sleep overwhelmed him and he drifted off right there in the room. He certainly had never slept in the hotel rooms he'd frequented with other men in the past…

…then again, Eames was pretty different from them, wasn't he?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

When Neil woke up, it was sometime in the early morning, and he was engulfed in a safe, warm embrace. At first he figured it must be Wendy because it usually was, but it didn't take long for his brain to come online and register that it was not Wendy wrapped around him. This person was bulkier, taller, definitely a man.

Neil had never been in the habit of staying through the night with his johns, and even if they asked him to stay, he never really cuddled like this… but…

He didn't even remember having sex last night. He didn't…

Oh.

Oh, right.

 _Eames_.

Neil had nearly forgotten that disaster of an evening, but now it flooded back and he bit down on a moan of embarrassment. He had no idea what had come over him last night causing him to do one stupid, crazy thing after another, but here he was, sleeping in a bed with a man he knew the name of, a man he hadn't fucked, and they were wrapped around each other like _lovers_.

A flutter of panic settled in Neil's chest like a moth trying to escape, but he still managed to untangle himself from Eames without waking him up. Neil clambered off the bed, feet meeting the soft carpet (Eames must have removed his shoes and socks—and his jacket too, now that he thought about it), and for a minute he just stared at the lump in the bed.

Eames still had clothes on, which was another weird thing for Neil. It was just a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt, but it was still more clothing on his bed mates than he was used to. His hair had been mussed into ridiculous cowlicks from sleeping with it wet, and his face was half buried into the pillow, expression peaceful, soft snores escaping through his parted lips. Neil looked at the his face, his eyelashes and arched eyebrows, his long and straight nose, those same lips from the night before that seemed even less possible in the daytime…

Neil had kissed those lips.

He'd kissed those lips but done nothing more.

He turned his gaze to the plane of Eames's back, to slide down the one arm he could see. There were hints of tattoos here and there, though Neil couldn't see a single one in full. It made him wonder what they looked like.

He bit his lip, the hint of sting against the scabbed over places bringing him back to reality. He leaned over and pulled the comforter back over Eames and started hunting down his things. He found his jacket folded up on the table next to the weird sci-fi suitcase and his shoes underneath it with his socks tucked into them. Eames seemed to have taken at least some sort of care with them, even though the socks had holes and the jacket and tennis shoes were both falling apart.

He slid into his socks and was just getting on his second shoe when the lump in the bed stirred. Neil paused, looking up at the mattress, hands pausing over the laces. He could hear his own breathing, not sure why he was suddenly so tense. Perhaps it was just that he'd hoped to make a clean getaway, maybe steal the money out of Eames's wallet and his nice coat, but now he couldn't. Now he just sat there, frozen.

Eames sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face and yawning, and then he dropped his hands, and he saw Neil. "Leaving already then?" he asked, stretching his arms above his head.

"Um," Neil replied.

Eames crawled out of the bed and rolled his shoulders. "I can go get breakfast first if you like. You look half-starved. Let me call you a cab, yeah?"

"I didn't mean to fall asleep here," Neil said. "You should've just woken me up."

"I couldn't do that," Eames laughed, sliding into a pair of gray trousers he pulled out of his suitcase (how had Neil not even thought to look through his suitcase?). "You looked bloody knackered, and I figured since you came here with the intentions of sharing my bed, it wouldn't bother you too much."

Neil finished tying his shoe and got to his feet, but from that point he really wasn't sure what to do. Leave? Go to breakfast with Eames? Wait on the cab?

So he asked, "Why… why did you kiss me?"

Eames raised an eyebrow. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I recall you kissing me first."

"No! I mean—"

"Why is kissing all we did?"

"Ah—yeah…"

Neil had never felt so out of his element before. Normally he talked more smoothly than this. Normally he'd be the one calling the shots here… but Eames was something entirely new, and even worse, Neil felt like Eames had eons more knowledge than him even though they were close in age. There was some sort of weird wisdom behind his eyes, like he'd seen the world in slower time than Neil had and had thus been able to take more in. Maybe it was just because he was from another country, but… it didn't feel like that was why. It was a curious thing.

"Well… you fell asleep," Eames said as if it was obvious, humor in his voice.

Oh. Duh. Neil wanted to open his mouth and insert his foot, but instead he just kept standing there, jacket in his fist, waiting.

"So, I can call a cab if you like. There's a complimentary breakfast downstairs if you want some of that or some coffee maybe. Um," Eames said, and with that 'um' Neil realized that Eames was feeling as awkward about this as he himself was. He just seemed to be handling it better.

"Yeah, uh… yeah," Neil said, looking at pretty much everything but Eames. "Yeah, I guess… I uh…" he paused, chewing on his bottom lip again and then ventured another glance at Eames.

Eames shrugged. "You can use my hairbrush and toothbrush I suppose."

"Oh. Um. Yeah, no, don't worry about it. Just uh… I'll take the subway home. I can't exactly afford cab fare, so…"

Then Eames was pulling out his wallet and sliding out some bills to hand over to Neil. The man was careful not to show him just how much was inside, but Neil could tell that it was a lot, especially because he handed him two hundred dollar bills. "Here," Eames said. "Take this and get you a cab, and use the rest to buy yourself a decent coat. Take care of yourself, yeah?"

"I didn't even do anything," Neil said, staring at the money in his hand as if he'd dreamed it there. "Do you… I can give you a blow job."

"Not necessary. You're buying yourself a proper coat for my conscience's sake."

Neil looked up at him, feeling this weird mixture of rejection and appreciation at the same time. "Okay…" was all he managed to say, and before he realized it, he was sitting in a taxi on the way back to Wendy.

* * *

"Where the fuck have you been?" was the first thing out of Wendy's mouth when Neil pushed his way inside. It wasn't as though he hadn't expected the rage, but all the same he still wasn't entirely sure what to tell her.

So, he lied. "The storm got too bad," he said. "I couldn't make it home."

"Where'd you stay then?" she asked, crossing her arms, jingling with the movement of her jewelry. "Did you go home with someone?"

Neil shrugged, neither confirming nor denying. "If you're asking if I fucked anyone last night, the answer is no."

She sighed out through her nose in frustration, but for the moment seemed satisfied. "Well, at least you're all right," she said, pulling him into her arms. He was glad to have Wendy's familiar scent in his nose, that smell of hair dye, coffee, and laundry detergent. She hummed, rubbing his back before pulling away. She shook her head and said, "I can't believe you went out in that flimsy ass jacket. I'm surprised you don't have limbs falling off." She smiled, and so did he, and they settled in for a breakfast of bologna sandwiches while watching old copies of their favorite horror movies.

Still, Neil was a bit bowled over by the realization that he couldn't stop thinking about Eames. Maybe it was because he'd been given money and hadn't done anything more than kiss the man, or perhaps it was because he wanted to know why he'd been thrown off balance so grandly just from being in his presence. Maybe it was both. Either way, he still kept picturing his face in his mind whenever he closed his eyes, and while frankly that was a welcome relief from the previous faces he'd been seeing it was no less bizarre. Neil could almost venture forth into the possibility that he wanted to fuck this guy, this _Eames_ who was around his age and not his type at all.

That wasn't a guaranteed truth at least, but he did know he wanted to see Eames again before he left. Maybe then he would feel like something hadn't been left unfinished.

That night he dreamed he was standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the mist below and overwhelmed with the urge to jump off, knowing somehow that there was something new waiting for him at the bottom. He woke up just as the sound of a showerhead spray started making its way into his thoughts.

* * *

Neil went out after Wendy headed off to work, glad to see that the snow had petered off enough to make travel possible. He had plenty of money left from what Eames had given him, so he went into a store much nicer than he was accustomed to in search of a new coat. The woman behind the register gave him the stink eye the entire time, obviously not trusting him not to steal anything, but he didn't really care. He found a leather coat with wool lining and a hood for a steal at one-hundred and fifty bucks and walked out in a better mood than he'd walked in with and a great deal warmer too.

He hadn't expected to finish shopping so quickly, and having found himself with an afternoon free before Wendy would get home he started walking, hands crammed into his pockets, cigarette dangling from his lips. Not for the first time in the last couple of days he wondered what Eames was up to and if he was still in town. He squinted up towards the street sign in the bright gray afternoon, trying to remember just where Eames's hotel had actually been while simultaneously telling himself not to go back.

Neil had never been much for doing things he was supposed to do, but he figured this was probably the least dangerous thing he could really do these days. If Eames had wanted to attack Neil, he'd had more than ample opportunity, and Neil was pretty sure the man wouldn't do anything if he came by to see if he was still around. After all, he had to show off his new coat… for Eames's conscience's sake.

He found his way to the hotel after backtracking to the right subway train and wandering up and down the street a few times (things looked remarkably different in the daylight after all), and again he was thankful for the coat because it made him look nice enough that when he strolled by the front desk to the elevator, no one asked any questions.

Eames's room was on the fourteenth floor, and while Neil didn't remember the number of the room right away, he was pretty sure he'd figured it out on the third try. No one answered, however, when he knocked, and when he leaned his ear against the door he could hear a strange hissing noise from inside.

"Weird," he mumbled and tested the knob. Locked, of course, but nothing Neil couldn't handle. It was an older hotel after all, and they hadn't installed key card locks, so all he had to do was pick the lock. He hadn't done it in a while, so it took a little longer than usual, but the familiar click was all he needed to hear before he stepped inside.

…only to freeze where he was standing because Eames was lying on the bed, appearing to be unconscious, and he was… _plugged up_ to the sci-fi briefcase machine. Neil's mouth fell open as he slowly shut the door behind him, and he quickly scanned the room for anyone who might have done this.

They were alone… which meant either the person who'd hooked Eames up to the machine had already left or that Eames had done it to himself. Neil leaned over it, discovering a digital red clock in the middle counting backwards from ten minutes and then followed the tubing over towards Eames's arm where he'd inserted a needle connected to it. His breathing was soft and even, and Neil realized that the man was asleep rather than unconscious.

Was it some kind of drug dispenser? He'd never heard of anything like that, even around the drug circles, so probably not… was Eames some sort of alien and this his life force?

He wasn't going to let that thought go any further because it reminded him too much of someone else.

He pulled his coat off and sat down on the edge of the bed, slowly running his fingers over the machine, trying to figure out how exactly it worked. He didn't see any sort of instruction manual inside, so really there wasn't any way to figure out just what it did.

Well, there was _one_ way.

It was probably really, really, really all kinds of stupid, but Eames seemed to be okay, and there were more tubes and needles available, so maybe it was for multiple use. Besides, his curiosity was absolutely piqued, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to walk out of the room without testing it first.

It took a moment or two but he found a vein and slipped the cannula into his arm, then reached over and depressed the plunger in the middle of the machine… and suddenly he became overwhelmingly tired, falling flat onto the bed with his legs still hanging off the side. It was the last thing he remembered.

* * *

The next thing Neil knew, he was walking down the street and smoking a cigarette. It was late in the afternoon so he figured he should probably get back home before Wendy did, but he wasn't quite sure about where he was. Sure, it definitely looked like New York, but it wasn't a street he recognized. All of the buildings had mirror faces, and the people walking up and down the street seemed to move almost like ghosts. As soon as Neil looked away from one, it was hard to remember their face.

Neil started to think that maybe he'd taken a really good drug and was just now coming off of it, but he wasn't sure what would cause these effects. He walked slowly, searching for a street sign or something so that he could get his bearings, but the street seemed to go on forever.

He realized something else too.

It wasn't cold. In fact, it felt normal, as though he was standing inside rather than out, and the sky was blank and blue rather than cloudy. The storm clearing up made sense. The lack of a chill in the air didn't… and New York streets weren't typically paved with setts… and everyone was driving on the wrong side of the road.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asked the air, removing the cigarette from his lips and dropping it on the ground. He turned to go into the closest building to ask for directions but found that it didn't seem to have a door on it. He grabbed hold of one of the people on the street, finding that even though he was staring right at the man, somehow his features smudged a little in his memory. "Hey, tell me where I am! This isn't New York. How did I get here?"

The man stared back at him, and Neil felt a shiver run through him as he realized _everyone_ was staring at him. He let go of the man's arm and stepped back, feeling a bit ill as he saw just how surrounded he really was.

No one moved, including himself.

 _How did I get here?_ Neil thought, desperately trying to remember so he could get away from these fucking lunatics. He'd gone into Eames's hotel room and found the weird machine and…

…and he'd fallen asleep. He didn't remember waking up and leaving. He just remembered being here.

A woman appeared through the crowd, raven haired and brown-eyed, dressed in a low cut suit that hugged her body just the right way, and Neil wondered why he could see her so much more clearly than the others. She walked straight up to him, smiling, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come, come on, now," she said lightly and started leading him away. The crowd resumed walking as if they'd never stopped, continuing towards their unknown destinations.

"Who are you?" Neil asked. "What is this fucking weird ass place?"

"What the fuck are you doing here?" the woman hissed, her voice taking on an oddly familiar accent. European. Sort of James Bond-y, except on a girl. Neil turned his head to look at his reflection in the nearest building because for some reason his peripheral kept putting him off. He understood why when he looked because in the reflection was not the woman but _Eames_.

"Jesus fuck!" Neil shouted, looking from the reflection to the woman, mortified.

"Don't panic," the woman said, and he looked in the reflection to find the woman, turning back to find Eames. "Don't let them know of your location," he said in his own voice, and Neil couldn't help but shake from where Eames was holding him by the elbows, gaping like a fish as he tried to figure out just what had happened to him.

Was this some sort of magic trick or was Neil just tripping his balls off? Had he finally gone off the deep end and went plunging into the pits of insanity? He thought the worst part was that he couldn't remember at all, couldn't remember a damned thing before plugging himself into that weird alien machine and then being suddenly dizzy and tired.

All of this was so unreal, so absolutely absurd and inconceivable that it felt almost like—

Like…

Wait…

If he'd fallen asleep, then maybe…

"Am I dreaming right now?" he asked, and a swell of classical music filled the air, like he was in a movie or something, and then all the buildings shattered, shards of mirrored glass falling upon him.

He didn't even have time to scream, letting Eames pull him close as they were stabbed through and killed instantly.

And then he woke up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Neil jumped to his feet, heart in his throat. He stumbled forward a couple of steps before there was a twinge of pain in his arm, reminding him that he was still connected to that… thing.

He turned around, eyes like saucers, and stared at Eames who was just sitting up on the bed, removing the cannula from his own arm and looking royally pissed off. Neil felt like Eames didn't have the right to look that frustrated when he himself was freaking out over something very real to freak out about.

"What the fuck… what the fuck was that?" Neil asked, a bit breathless as he pointed to the machine, wincing as it pulled at the needle in his arm again.

"No, no, you don't get to ask bloody questions right now," Eames spat, tossing the needle and tubing onto the bedspread without much care, getting to his feet and storming over to Neil. "How the fuck did you get in here? Why the fuck _are_ you here?"

Neil was still reeling from being rather violently killed by collapsing buildings, so he just stared at Eames with his mouth gaping open until the man shook him by the shoulders. "I… I was… I picked the lock. I heard a noise inside so I picked the lock, and—"

"You _broke in_?" Eames shouted, and Neil wasn't sure if Eames was shouting because he was angry or if it was just because the shock over Neil being in that weird… dream place… caused his adrenaline to spike and he couldn't help it. "You… Jesus…" Eames looked away, shifting his body about as if he couldn't keep still, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. He turned back towards Neil and hoisted a finger into his face. "You _broke in_ to my hotel room because you heard a noise. Is that really what you're telling me right now?"

Neil felt a muscle jump in his jaw when he realized Eames was talking down to him. He didn't dignify it with a response, instead just glaring at Eames.

"Why did you even come back?" Eames asked after he realized the first question wasn't going to get an answer, spreading his arms out wide. "What are you even doing here?"

Neil stood his ground but continued to say nothing because he really didn't know why he was there… He'd come up with excuses on the way there, but they seemed so stupid now.

Eames sighed, running a hand over his hair, moving out of Neil's personal space to dig out a cigarette from his suitcase and light it. "Bloody hell, bloody fucking hell…" he mumbled. "This beats all I've ever seen."

Neil finally remembered to remove the needle from his arm, pressing his thumb over the bloom of blood that followed it. He left the needle and tubing next to Eames's on the bed. After a minute he asked, softly, "What exactly is that thing? Was I… in your head or something? In your mind? I'm really beginning to wonder what exactly it is that you do for a living."

Neil considered it a bit of a talent that he could still stand to be a smart ass at a time like this. Of course, he knew that having control over the situation meant that he could never let the other person see him sweat.

Eames sighed smoke, looking back at him. "It's hard to explain," he said.

"Horseshit," Neil replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "I saw what it does… I just… need you to put it into words. Why do you need that thing? What do you use it for? I mean, come on, honestly you can't expect me to just leave without knowing something."

"I didn't _expect_ you to be here at all," Eames responded, and took another drag off of his cigarette. "I don't owe you a bloody explanation. I don't owe you a bloody thing. You're lucky I didn't whip out my pistol and blow your pretty little brains out."

Neil snorted. "You don't have a pistol," he said.

Eames reached behind him in the place between his back and his blazer and revealed a gun, holding it up by his head with the muzzle pointing towards the ceiling. "Do I not?"

Neil was pretty sure all the color drained out of his face because Eames tossed the gun onto the bed with everything else. Neil couldn't take his eyes off of it, the dark metal glinting in the light. He'd never actually held a gun before, and he couldn't help but wonder how it would feel to shoot someone. He wondered what it would be like to watch someone bleed and possibly die.

Then he remembered that he already knew what that was like.

"So… so you're not going to tell me?" Neil asked, and his voice cracked in the middle.

Eames stared him down and Neil tried to avoid his gaze but was unable to. After a minute or so Eames threw his hands in the air and sat down at the table, indicating to the other chair for Neil. Neil grabbed his coat and sat down, coat on his knees, one eye focused on the door in case he needed to run.

"It's a PASIV device," Eames supplied, and when Neil stared at him blankly, he continued. "It's an acronym—Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous device. PASIV. See?"

"Yeah, okay… is this information supposed to mean something to me?"

Eames rolled his eyes and Neil set his jaw. "I'm getting to that. Do you want to know or not?"

Neil stayed silent.

"Right then," Eames said, stubbing out his cigarette butt in the ashtray. "In my line of work we use that device to go into people's dreams. Somnacin is the sedative that sends us to sleep and allows us to connect in other people's dreams. I know it probably sounds like something out of a movie, but I assure you it's quite real… as you've already seen."

"So… so why do you go into people's dreams?"

Eames smirked. "Well, it's an elegant way of obtaining information without leaving a trace—provided you do it right, that is. A team of dreamshare operatives can be hired by some very powerful people to go into their enemies' minds and steal their secrets. It's referred to in the underground as mind crime."

Neil couldn't help the excitement that bubbled up inside of him. "Really?" he said, stunned. "Holy shit."

Eames nodded. "The PASIV has been in the hands of the government for years, but just recently has it gotten out to the underground. I joined the mind crime business after I deserted the dreamshare program in the military back home. I thought my skills could be put to better use than making soldiers forget that dying is terrifying."

"Wow," Neil breathed, absolutely entranced. "So… you just go into people's dreams and steal their thoughts?"

"Well, yes, but it's not that simple," Eames replied, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs. "There has to be an architect to build the dream, and a chemist to put together the proper mixture of somnacin the dream will require, and then of course a point man to learn everything there is to know about the client beforehand so we know what we're up against, and an extractor to actually go through stealing the idea."

"So which one are you?"

"None, well, not none of them. I work as an extractor most of the time because it's the work that's available, and I don't quite have the talent as an architect… but I believe the part I work best in is forger."

"Forger? So… you just fake documents and I.D.'s and stuff?"

Eames shook his head. "I can do that, yes, but in the dream world it's a bit more… mm… fantastical, I suppose is the right word for it. See, sometimes we need to distract the mark… that is, the one we're stealing information from, so that he or she isn't aware we've intruded on their dreamscape. If they were to become aware of our intrusion, their projections would turn on us. I can come in as a forger and help with that. Basically what I do is transform myself to look like someone else—probably someone they're familiar with, someone they trust. This requires a lot of research because you never know what can tip someone off that who they're talking to isn't who they say they are. The woman who saved you from my projections is the forgery I'm working on for my current job."

"Are you fucking kidding me? How do people not know about this stuff yet?" Neil exclaimed, astounded. "You'd think this would be all over the fucking news. Stealing information directly from people's minds? Being able to not only disguise yourself but become someone else entirely? Building entire worlds that people interact in without anyone ever knowing they're not real? Jesus fucking Christ!"

Eames raised his eyebrows at Neil. Apparently he hadn't expected such a reaction of excitement. "Well, the government doesn't exactly want people to know about us. They don't even want people to know that such a device exists, much less that some of them have gotten into the hands of proper thieves. If this leaked out to the masses there would be absolute panic, I'd imagine… which is why you can't tell anyone what I've told you."

Neil looked back at the machine on the bed. "How much money do you make doing a job like that?"

"It varies from job to job," Eames replied, "but it pays enough to for me to have places to live in London, Rome, and Mombasa as well as any plane trip I want while also supplementing me when I feel the urge to gamble."

"So basically you just make a fucking ton of money," Neil said. "Where do I sign up?"

Eames laughed. Neil wasn't sure what the man thought was so goddamned funny, but he let him chuckle until he seemed to realize Neil was completely serious. "You're not joking," Eames said.

"Of course I'm not fucking joking," Neil said, sneering. "Why the hell would I joke about that? Shit, I don't want to work at a damn sub shop the rest of my life, and I sure as hell don't want to go out and get some other lame ass job. Do I really look like the kind of guy that's supposed to sit around all day while another piece of me is chipped away? This sounds so fucking exciting, way better than anything I've ever done or even thought about doing. Where do I sign up?"

"You can't just _sign up_ for it. No one in the business has ever just decided to start doing it. These are all people who worked in the program in their respective militaries who deserted or left when the program fell through because of fear of death for what they knew. They had experience with the PASIV device. They know how to clean it, how to store it, how to take it apart and put it back together. They know how it works."

"I could learn."

"You're a bloody prostitute."

"I'm not a prostitute. I used to hustle for extra cash, but I'm not a prostitute," Neil growled, glaring. "I may not have been all that good in school, but I fucking graduated, and I know how to focus on stuff I actually want to do. The least you can do is let me _try_. Audition me, you know?"

"And what will you do if I don't?"

"Go to the news and tell them about your little machine."

"They won't believe you."

"They might."

"I could just shoot you."

Neil sniffed. "If you were going to shoot me, you'd have already done it."

Eames leveled his gaze on Neil and then asked, unexpectedly, "Why did you come back here?"

Neil fell silent, all of his cockiness sliding off of him. He looked down at his lap. "I just… I bought a new coat, and… I guess I thought I should… thank you or something."

Eames looked down at the coat in Neil's lap, and his expression softened a little. Neil was just thankful it wasn't pity. "Okay, fine… I'll give you one chance to try it out. I'll go into your mind and try to steal something from you, and you'll try to stop me. You can build the dream yourself. You are the subject, do you understand that?"

Neil nodded, nearly jumping out of his seat. He hadn't been this excited in a long time. His blood was screaming through his veins like the first time he'd actually gone through with it and sold his body. He managed to put on a calm, unconcerned expression for Eames, just like he had with that john though, thankfully.

Neil carefully watched Eames as he put the gun away, wanting to make sure the man wouldn't put him under and then fire a bullet into his brain. He laid down on one side of the bed, the same side he'd slept on the night he'd stayed there, and he watched Eames crawl onto the bed. For a moment it reminded him of the times he'd spent fucking other guys in hotel rooms, and it was honestly a bit bizarre to not be doing that here, but he lifted his arm towards Eames who took it gently by the wrist and inserted the needle. Neil's pulse jumped a little under Eames's warm fingers, but other than that he gave no indication that he was nervous.

"Are you prepared for what you're about to do?" Eames asked as he slid the needle into his own arm. "You're opening yourself up to me. I'm going to be rooting around in your subconscious."

Neil stared up at him, expression carefully blank. For a beat he thought that maybe this wasn't such a good idea, that maybe he didn't want Eames inside of his mind looking for the things he'd hidden away there and pulling assumptions from truths he didn't understand. He thought for that moment that if anyone could get to his secrets, he'd be written off completely, that these secrets were too precious to risk…

…but the moment passed, and Neil nodded. "I'm ready," he said, smirking a little.

"You're absolutely sure."

Neil nodded again.

"Neil—"

"Stop trying to pussy out!" Neil complained. "I said I was prepared so just do it already, all right? I asked you to do this so stop pretending you're forcing me. Just don't fucking shoot me in the head as soon as a I fall asleep."

Eames sighed through his nose. "Well, at least you've got that on your side when it comes to joining mind crime."

"What's that?"

"You don't trust anyone."

Neil grinned and settled back against the pillows, folding his hands over his stomach. "You'd best pull out all your stops, Mr. Eames, because I don't intend to let you do this easily."

"I accept your challenge, and I hope you realize that I have loads more experience than you."

"More than I could ever _dream_ of?" Neil teased, and Eames rolled his eyes. Neil closed his eyes, still smiling and said, "Come on, quit stalling. Let's do this."

"All right…" Eames said softly, setting a timer on the alarm clock next to the bed before setting the timer on the PASIV device. "I've got the alarm set to start playing music two minutes before the dream collapses and we wake up. I'm giving you five minutes topside, which should supply you with about an hour or so down below. Understand?"

"Mm," Neil replied, not opening his eyes. He didn't really care about the math of it all. He just wanted to get down to business, already thinking up his own architecture.

"All right," Eames said, reaching over to place his fingers on top of the button. "Here we go…"

Eames pushed down on the button, and a hissing sound filled the room. Neil's eyelids suddenly felt very heavy, and he was barely able to turn his head as he watched Eames lie down next to him before he was falling asleep.

Neil didn't know what would be waiting down there for Eames to search for, but he was having a hard time being too terribly concerned about it. Despite the gravity of his secrets, lies, and history, he doubted that Eames would be able to find a damned thing that would deem useful.

After all, Neil may have lacked experience, but he knew absolutely no one better at putting up mental walls around things he didn't want there.

Eames didn't stand a chance against that.

(He hoped).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Neil was sitting in a bar. It reminded him of the one back in Hutchinson with the annoying, twangy country music, but the patrons and at least some of the décor seemed a bit more classy like the bars in NYC. He didn't really give a shit either way, sitting in his booth with a beer, taking small sips from the mouth of it occasionally and watching the room for other people.

He was pretty sure he had come here for a reason, but he didn't quite remember what that was. He was sure it would come to him eventually.

Neil sat back and yawned, bored, and thought about ditching the place and going somewhere with more excitement. He'd fucked every john in this bar, and he was far from interested in fucking them again even if they constantly glanced over at him with the eyes of a starved animal. He must have been looking pretty damned good tonight simply because of the amount of attention he was getting.

Still, sometimes he liked to make them starve, so he finished his beer and checked for a set of keys that he discovered he didn't have, and then he headed out the door. It wasn't dark yet, but Neil couldn't find the sun in the sky, so he wasn't entirely sure what the time was. It wasn't particularly hot or cold, but he was still wearing a nice leather coat that…

…that he'd bought earlier…

Realization dawned on him. He was _dreaming_ right now, and Eames was somewhere in his subconscious, looking for secrets.

"So this is my subconscious then," Neil whispered, staring at the scenery around him. He was obviously in a city, very reminiscent of New York with its urban style of buildings, but underneath it all was still this hokey, mid-Western feel of Hutchinson, Kansas. Neil wandered down the street, weaving through crowds of people who all looked familiar and all stared at him with hungry eyes, and he wondered where Eames might be looking for the answers to his secrets. He tried to think of where people would store things in a city that no one wanted to see. A prison? A bank? A hospital?

Neil was already sure he knew that none of those places were where he kept his. In fact, he was almost positive that he knew exactly where they were.

He knew Eames would never guess it, so Neil kept sauntering down the street, keeping his eye out for anyone who didn't look familiar. He knew that Eames could literally be anyone, but he figured the man had to at least have a tell. No one had a perfect poker face after all. Still, it was hard to look at everyone in the crowd, and frankly it was difficult to tell one person from another.

He decided that Eames would likely attempt to follow him, so he turned down a less populated street and then another and another, allowing these streets to appear at his will. He imagined seeing the city from above, creating his own mental map, gleeful at the way it obeyed him, and he continued walking for at least twenty minutes.

Soon enough, the city's buildings grew shorter and then gave way to open grassland. There were crops of corn and cows loping around their pastures and then a smaller city, one much more like Hutchinson. He wandered into it, turning down Monroe Street to find his own house sitting there, the lawn dead, the bushes a bit overgrown. He was tempted to go inside for a moment, but he figured there'd really be nothing of interest there. He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. He didn't see anyone, so he shrugged and shoved on.

It didn't take long until he found what he'd been searching for.

His secrets of course would be stashed here, in the house near the fairgrounds with the blue security light. It looked exactly the way it had in his memory, crystal clear despite the summer being so many years ago. A wave of some sort of emotion welled up in Neil's chest, but he couldn't quite identify what it was. It wasn't as happy as he expected by any means.

His projections still wandered about the streets, gathering in groups to talk about this or that, kids playing, teenagers from his high school days sulking on the hoods of old cars, glaring at him and yet still… _wanting_. Neil did find his subconscious's fascination with him just the slightest bit unnerving even though it also was a bit thrilling. He almost felt like a god in this world.

He decided to enjoy himself a little.

He approached the group of sulking teens, shoving his hands into his pockets. "What'chu gawking at?" he asked, smirking. His smirk slid away from him suddenly as an arm wrapped around his shoulder from behind, a hand sliding down the front of his t-shirt. A gasp was pulled from him as he found he recognized the feel of those cold fingers.

Neil jerked away and turned around and Coach was standing there in his baseball cleats, smiling at him. Neil could do nothing but gape back at him for several seconds, and then he felt one of the teenagers move behind him. He caught the figure in his peripheral vision, seeming to wander away like many of the projections did (no one seemed to notice anything was going on), but Neil knew better.

Suddenly every building on the street was hidden behind rising brick walls with no doors and no windows, and he looked directly at the teenager that had been making his way towards Coach's house. He glanced back towards Coach, but he was gone.

All of his projections turned towards him and the teenage boy who stared back at Neil as if waiting for something to happen. No one moved.

…then…

From behind the wall that shielded Coach's house from view, there was a scratching sound… like someone was on the other side, trying to break out… a little boy who was crying, desperate for escape, and Neil immediately thought _it's Brian_. _It has to be… Brian…_

Neil narrowed his eyes and focused on the boy to keep from focusing on that sound, and said, "You're not fooling anyone. I know it's you, Eames."

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and a familiar voice said, "Do you?"

Neil turned and saw one of the neighbors, a chubby, middle-aged woman in a pair of overly starched jeans. She looked completely typical except for the very atypical expression on her face, one Neil was sure was Eames's.

The projections weren't staring at him and the boy. They were staring at _Eames_. Neil had suspected Eames was nearby and they'd zeroed in on the one not like them.

"Don't feel bad," the woman said with Eames's accent but her own voice. "The subconscious is better at finding out of the ordinary things in the mind than the conscious is."

"You still haven't found my secrets," Neil said softly, and his projections were moving closer to them. Eames noticed this of course, but didn't seem too terribly concerned.

"Who's Brian then?" Eames asked, and Neil felt his stomach drop to his knees. He turned around to stare at the brick wall and found Brian's name written across it in graffiti. "Is he your baseball playing boyfriend? Does he know you like to sell your body to other blokes?"

"You… you got it wrong," Neil said, and his voice was shaking. Eames probably thought that he was badly bluffing, but he wasn't. He was just much more concerned with the fact that Brian's cage was announcing its presence.

The ground started to rumble and Eames's confidence faltered as he realized Neil wasn't taking back his statement, that he looked genuinely fearful that something else was going on. "You… you're bluffing," Eames said, even though Neil knew that Eames knew that he wasn't. "Your mind has been putting up clues the entire time we've been down here. The… the billboards that say Brian, Brian, Brian again and again… th… the man in the baseball cleats appearing in every crowd, following you, and the way he touched you! You're telling me that…"

He trailed off, turning to look at the projections. "Hold up now… what is this…?" Eames whispered, and Neil realized he had shifted back into himself. Neil didn't really understand what was bothering him though until he said, "Why are they all looking at you? They should be looking at me… In fact, they should have attacked me by now…"

He turned his eyes back on Neil. "You tricked me, didn't you?" he growled. "You… you're some sort of dreamshare spy sent on me, aren't you?"

"What? No!" Neil cried out, and the ground rumbled again. The wind kicked up and Neil was reminded of the time when he was a kid and a tornado had swept through Kansas. He'd hidden under his mother's bed while she was out barhopping with her boyfriend and looked at her _Playgirl_ magazines.

"You are, you are," Eames said. "I'm not that stupid. I've played your game up until now, but I know you have to be because no beginner would be able to build mazes like that."

"Mazes? What the fuck are you talking about?" Neil shouted over the wail of the wind. The projections gathering around them were increasing in number. Neil could see the faces of his mother, Wendy, and Eric standing in the crowd. All of them had their eyes locked directly on him, and their expressions were just like the ones of the men in the bar.

It started raining, but the water fell in straight, constant lines, like it was being sprayed from a showerhead.

The scratching and the sobs from behind the brick wall grew louder. Brian's name in paint started to run, leaving long blue lines cascading towards the pavement below the wall.

Neil could see Coach standing in the crowd, somehow taller than all of them and somehow completely dry. Coach still only existed in that sweltering summer heat. The water could not touch him.

"Tell me the truth!" Eames shouted as the wind grew so loud and fast that Neil thought he might be lifted off of the ground. "Stop trying to distract me with all of this nonsense!"

"You think I'm doing this on purpose?" Neil shrieked back, covering his ears to try and block out the howling of the wind. His clothes were sticking to him and the crowd was moving closer. Chunks of the streets and buildings broke off like pieces of chocolate bars and were carried off into the air, and Eames looked around, expression growing more and more distraught. Neil realized that Eames had merely been hoping this was being done purposely. He realized that something had gone horribly wrong.

The walls around the houses extended ever higher.

"Neil!" Eames screamed, and somehow Neil could hear it even through his hands and the wind.

He opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and only had a split second to see before his projections descended upon him, an entire crowd smothering him with the heat of their bodies as they ripped at his clothing, greedy hands wanting more and more. Neil wasn't entirely sure if he was screaming, couldn't hear it over the wind. Neil tried to fight them off, but it didn't do much good considering the sheer number of them. His jacket and shirt and jeans had been torn from him, meaning he didn't have his knife on his person.

Someone grabbed hold of his testicles, and he squirmed and tried to get out of their hand, but then they were twisted painfully and spots danced before his eyes. People were scratching at his legs and torso, arms being pulled until they felt like they were going to come out of socket. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of the gun back in Eames's hotel room, wishing he had it now. He could feel the weight of it in his mind and then in his hand, and he realized he'd allowed it into existence, just as he had the many alleyways in the city.

He didn't bother to aim, firing blindly into the crowd, and a few of his projections fell dead to the ground. Before they descended upon him again, Neil constantly firing through them, he saw Eames attempting to pull them off of him, pale and wide-eyed as a ghost, and then Neil tilted his head back, saw the running blue paint from Brian's name, and how it had all run together at the bottom of the wall behind his head, spelling out one word.

 _SLUT_.

Over the wind, Neil almost thought he heard music playing, but he didn't bother with it. Instead he shouted in the direction he'd last seen Eames, "Wake me up! Please, for the love of God, wake me up!"

* * *

Neil opened his eyes, looking around for any sign of the crazy mob.

There was only Eames, looking how Neil felt, removing the needle from his own arm. He turned towards Neil and pressed a hand to the side of his face. "Are you all right?" he asked, and his voice was shaking.

Neil looked at the ceiling, at the alarm clock still softly playing music, at the curtains and the city in the window. "Yeah… I'm… I'm okay…" he said, feeling like his throat was clogged.

Eames removed the needle from Neil's arm and helped him sit up, and Neil realized that his hands were shaking.

"Good god," Eames mumbled, and he couldn't seem to stop touching Neil's hair or face or shoulder or hands. "I've never seen someone's subconscious turn on them before. Something has got to be wrong with this batch of somnacin. I knew something was weird…"

It seemed the only reason Eames was talking was to fill up the room with something other than terror because Neil wasn't really listening to him. He mostly just waited until Eames finished muttering to himself and then said, "I'm not a spy… I swear to god I'm not."

Eames looked into his eyes, hesitated, and then nodded. "Right… um… yeah…"

For a moment there was nothing to be done but sit there and let their heart rates calm down. Eames still kept a hand on Neil's shoulder, thumb pressed up close to his jugular, as if to make sure he was still there.

"So, um…" Eames said when the silence had dragged on too long. "Um, you've never used the PASIV device before then."

"Not before today," Neil replied.

Eames shook his head, obviously impressed. "You can build mazes. You don't understand how important that is in mind crime, how hard it is for people to do. Your architecture itself is a little plain, a little difficult to believe, but the layout of your city was remarkable."

"So… that's good then," Neil said. "Does that mean I pass the test?"

Eames stared at him, seeming to have forgotten why they'd gone under in the first place.

"I mean," Neil continued, "you didn't get any of my secrets. The one you thought you got was wrong."

"So … so baseball man isn't your boyfriend then?" Eames said.

Neil shook his head. "No," he replied.

"And he isn't Brian."

"Brian would cry if you thought he was," Neil said but didn't elaborate when Eames's eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

Eames sighed, raking a hand through his own hair. "Well, fine, I'll admit that I haven't seen someone pick up on it quite so quickly… you're still pretty rough around the edges, but I will say that with some training… and some decent somnacin… you could probably be… pretty good at this."

"So you'll teach me?" Neil asked, a smile cracking through his sober expression. It seemed ludicrous to even want to go back down there, but… well, he _did_.

"Oh, no, no, I don't have the time to teach you. I'm on a job."

Disappointment flooded through Neil, shoulders slumping. "So all that build up for nothing then? You're a fucking cocktease."

"Look, I'm not saying you can't try. I don't really have the time to teach you the basic how-to's is all. I'm sorry."

"Well, maybe I can help you on the job."

Eames snorted. "I don't think a rookie like you could do much—"

"Who's your mark?"

Eames sighed, rolling his eyes. "A businessman who works here, the son of the owner of Winchester Industries... You know, ah… George Winchester Jr. I'm forging as his fiancée to find out if he's the one who poisoned his father, trying to get the company into his own hands."

"So, what can I do to help?"

"There's nothing you can _do_ except maybe find us a better pointman. The arse we've got on our team can't dig up information for shit."

Neil's smile returned. "If I can get you the information and help you with this job, will you train me?"

Eames laughed. "If _you_ can get the information on Winchester and help with this job, I'll bloody blow you."

Neil got up off of the bed, sliding back into his coat. "All right. I'll be back in two days."

"You'll never manage it," Eames said.

Neil turned and winked at him. "Watch me."

The door slammed shut behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Figuring out the location of the Winchester office was harder than Neil expected. Unlike a lot of companies, the Winchester family didn't seem to feel the need to plaster their name across their building in big gold letters, so he ended up spending a lot of that afternoon wandering around until he found a phone booth. He found the address in a phone book and ripped out the page, cramming it into the pocket of his jacket.

Just glancing through the windows of the place, Neil knew there would be no way he'd get inside. Everyone was dressed in suits and no matter how handsome Neil might have been, he knew he couldn't convince them he belonged there in his t-shirt, jeans, and five dollar haircut.

He had two days to come up with something and get the information, so he went home. Wendy would be back soon, and if he was gone when she returned, she'd be suspicious.

…of course, it turned out that she was suspicious anyway because when she came in she pulled a face and said, "What happened to you?"

Neil dug a piece of bologna out of the fridge and shoved it into his mouth, kicking the door shut behind him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Wendy rolled her eyes and set her purse down on the table. "First of all, don't just eat bologna. Christ, Neil, I'll make something to eat if you're hungry. Second of all, you're lit up like a fucking star. Did you get some good weed or something?"

"No," Neil said, flopping down onto the couch. He found himself grinning though, even as he said it.

"You fucking liar," Wendy said, climbing on top of him and sitting on his stomach. She whapped him with a throw pillow. "Tell me!"

"Nothing. Nothing's happened to me, I swear," he said.

"Then why are you smiling like that? I've never seen you smile like that before."

"This is just my face, Wendy. Nothing's going on." He did his best to turn his expression to a sober one. He was pretty sure he only halfway succeeded.

"Neil McCormick, if you don't tell me the truth right now I'll never get off of you."

Neil shrugged. "Even if I wanted to tell you, I can't because it's top secret."

Wendy's eyes momentarily bugged out, but then she was rolling them again. "Oh, what- _ever_ , Neil. You expect me to believe you're involved in some big secret thing like that?"

Of course, Neil never hid anything from Wendy (except for that night in Brighton Beach and the meeting with Brian afterwards), so he laughed when she smacked him with the pillow again and said, "I'm serious! Okay, I'll tell you, but you can't tell anyone else, understand?"

She tossed the pillow to the floor and crossed her arms. "Okay then. Spill."

He sighed, trying to think of how to properly word just what had taken place, what parts to include and which ones to leave out. "You remember when we were little, and we dreamed of being crazy famous criminals like Bonnie and Clyde and shit like that?"

"Yeah, of course I do. Don't tell me you've murdered someone and want me to go on the run with you."

"No way," Neil said, "this is way better than that."

"So what is it?"

He sat up on his elbows, motioning at her to climb off of him, so she did. He adjusted himself so he was sitting next to her and said, "I met this guy, right? And he has this crazy machine that he uses to steal things with. Guess what he steals. Seriously, guess."

"I don't know… diamonds?" she asked, though from the look on her face she was obviously only humoring him.

"Bigger."

"Royal jewels?"

"Nope."

"Well, fuck, Neil, I don't know."

Neil lifted his hand and poked her in the forehead. "He steals people's _ideas_. Their _thoughts_."

She rolled her eyes again. "Well, fuck, Neil, anyone can do that. That's why there's laws against plagiarism and shit."

He shook his head. "Not like that. Listen," he said. He took her hand and pressed her thumb over the tiny mark where the needle had been. "You put a needle in your arm that's connected to the machine, and then you connect another person to it too, or even more people if you want, and then you hit a button on it and it sends you to sleep. When you're asleep, you can walk around in other people's dreams and steal their thoughts and secrets."

She stared down at where her thumb was pressed against his pale flesh, mouth slightly parted, and then she turned her eyes back on him and said, "You expect me to believe that?"

"Haven't you heard crazier things? Why would I make this up?"

He knew if it had been anyone else, his words would have been dismissed immediately. It was Wendy though, and Wendy could usually tell when he was lying about something, especially when the lie was as ludicrous as this idea was. At this moment, his gaze did not falter, and she knew that one of two things had happened: A) Neil McCormick was telling the truth about a dream machine and stealing ideas, or B) Neil McCormick had finally gone completely insane.

…and well, he was pretty sure he looked sane enough.

"Oh my God," Wendy said softly. "That's incredible… Jesus Christ, Neil, how did you find this guy?"

Neil shrugged his shoulders again. "It was just chance, I guess. He was looking for the subway. He says I have a real knack for it, and if I can prove to him that I can do the work, then he'll help me get into the business… and Wendy, these fucking jobs pay a _lot_. I'm talking like… vacation houses in Maui and Aspen and shit, plane rides all over the world and fancy restaurants."

Wendy's eyes lit up like Christmas. "What do you need to do?"

He smirked. "Don't worry. I've got this… and once I get my money, I'm gonna buy you a big fancy ass place in Paris or something. One for you and one for my mom… Hell, I'll even get a place for Eric, and that way I'll never have to go back to fucking Hutchinson ever again."

He paused, pursing his lips, and turned to Wendy. "I do need _something_ though. I need a suit."

* * *

Wendy had a friend at work that was about Neil's size, and Neil was thankful that the guy did happen to own a suit, even if he hadn't worn it since high school. Neil had never really been the dressing up type, so it felt bizarre to slide into the outfit in the bathroom of his and Wendy's apartment. At the moment he didn't much care for it, but he most definitely wasn't going to give up on this challenge just because he didn't like the clothes.

Neil took care to remove the hoop from his ear and set it on the corner of the sink, and then he pulled out the tube of Wendy's hair gel. He needed to at least look a little less like a twink, so he slicked back his hair and then wiped his hands on his t-shirt before throwing it back into the hamper.

When he looked up at his reflection, he nearly jolted back in shock.

It was a little amazing how different he looked. "Aw, fuck, Wendy, I look like such a jackass!" he complained as he stepped out of the bathroom. The hard, hollow thump of his oxford shoes was unfamiliar.

Wendy was just lighting up a cigarette when he came out and she snorted. "Oh, my God, you _do_ ," she said. "Jesus, Neil, you're dressed like my dad."

Neil chuckled, buttoning his jacket. "I'm convincing though, right?"

She looked like she was about to burst out laughing at the sight of him, but she said, "Yeah, I'd say you look convincing. You'd best be careful, Neil, because dressed like that you'll attract a lot of girls."

Neil nabbed her cigarette before she could take a real drag off of it and took one for himself. "I think you underestimate me."

"You're not going out there to sell your body, Neil."

Neil blew out smoke, returned her cigarette. "I'll be back later."

She caught him on the stairway outside the door and called after him, "Try not to talk like a yokel if you wanna convince them you're legit! Annunciate!"

Neil rolled his eyes and offered her his middle finger on the way down the steps.

* * *

The Winchester building looked the same as the last time he saw it, but when he walked in no one bothered to even look up. He knew Wendy had been teasing him about the way he talked, but he still focused very hard to round out his vowels when he approached the front desk.

"Hi, I'm here for an appointment with a George Winchester?" he offered, his words tasting odd in his mouth.

The secretary looked up from the book she was reading and her bored expression turned to a surprised one. Maybe she hadn't expected the owner of the voice to look like Neil… for a moment he worried that she saw right through his disguise. The suit wasn't even an expensive one, and guys probably smoothed their hair back with something other than ladies' hair gel.

"Oh, um," the secretary said uncomfortably. "Can I get your name?"

"Uhh," Neil said, faltering momentarily before recovering, "my name isn't exactly on the record… this is more of a… last minute thing."

Of the lies Neil had told, that certainly wasn't the best one, but oddly enough the woman seemed convinced. She darted her eyes away, back to the dirty novel she was reading, and mumbled, "Um, well, you should know the way then… Top floor, third office."

Neil left her there without saying another word, sauntering into the elevator and hitting the highest button. The elevator was empty save for himself, so it was quiet. He stared at the reflections in the walls, stared at the disguise of himself. This was never what he imagined he'd be doing, never how he expected to dress for any reason. He and Wendy had always talked shit about the men in their business suits, going to their cubicles to push pencils around. They knew they'd never want to live that way… It was too boring, too constricting…

…but this dreaming thing… well, it had more benefits than the teachers first made him believe. Of course, he was pretty sure when they told the students to reach for the stars and never stop dreaming, they didn't exactly have the 'steal their thoughts' thing in mind, but it did feel like the one actually marginally useful lesson he'd obtained from the twelve years of bullshit. He'd never really thought he'd be able to get a job that paid better than what he got selling himself, and if he didn't show Eames what he was made of then he doubted there would be a chance of finding another job in the future.

He breathed in and out and tried not to look at himself. He looked so much more grown up like this, and he doubted Coach would have approved.

…Coach's approval didn't matter anymore though… and yet he still tried, just in case, and he wasn't sure why he did it, and he wasn't sure why he wanted to.

In fact… he really wasn't sure he wanted to now… at this point, it was just something that he did.

He jumped when the doors slid open and stepped into a plush carpeted hall. It was so silent and still that for a split second he forgot where he was going. It seemed like the calm just before a storm… and that made him think of the one from the dream, the dream Eames had witnessed…

Neil suddenly thought of the clues he'd given off in his subconscious, and how even though Eames had made the wrong connection, he _had_ made one. Would he be able to figure it out? What would Neil do if that was the case?

He shook himself out of it, figuring those thoughts were best saved for later, and sought out George Winchester, Jr.'s office.

George was a younger guy, though not as young as Neil, probably in his late twenties. He wasn't particularly good looking or ugly so much as unbelievably average. The expensive suit and modern, decorative office did nothing to change his average-ness, which Neil was sure it was supposed to. He hardly looked like a threat by any means, but Neil supposed looks could be deceiving.

George looked at Neil with surprise when he noticed him standing there. His mouth fell open a little, but then he recovered. "Can I help you?" he asked, and Neil wanted to burst out laughing. This guy was working for the company and seemed more out of place than Neil did.

He didn't laugh though, instead coming inside and closing the door, discreetly scanning the room for any info on the man he could take back to Eames. "I'm here for an appointment," he said, rounding out his vowels again.

The man's eyes widened a little. "I didn't call you."

"I was sent over," Neil replied. "Special."

"Oh. Well."

It took a couple of seconds, but Neil quickly noticed that the air in the room had shifted to a feeling he was more familiar with. He suddenly realized that perhaps he hadn't quite pulled off the role as 'businessman' but his other skill seemed to be coming in handy.

…and he definitely had something to take back to Eames (and he hadn't even started yet).

The man approached Neil slowly, looking a little nervous. "My fiancée will be here in an hour… so we don't have much time. Cameron sent you?"

Neil didn't know who Cameron was, but he still said yes.

"I've already been paid too," Neil added. "Where do you want me?"

A niggling panic settled in the bottom of his gut, but he did what he could to ignore it. This guy wasn't threatening enough to deserve it. The man smoothed a hand down the lapel of Neil's jacket, and Neil wanted to close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere else.

"Can you just uh…" George said softly. "Get under the desk and…"

Neil wasn't stupid. He knew what that meant, and even though it made him want to throw up, he did it. It didn't used to bother him like this… but again, it was a thought best saved for later, so he watched the man sit down and unzip, pulling out his cock and leaving it presented to him.

Neil closed his eyes and took the man's cock into his mouth and tried to think of something else. He ended up settling his thoughts on Eames, remembering how he'd expected the man to attack him the night they met, the way he still _didn't_ attack him even after he broke into his hotel room and rooted around in his head. He thought of that one kiss they'd shared, having half-forgotten it in all the excitement.

He wondered what Eames would think if he walked into the office at that moment and found Neil dressed to the nines, still sucking this man off like the dirty whore that he was. He wondered if Eames would be surprised.

George whimpered above him, so Neil started working in some of his best techniques to get this over with as quick as possible, and he tried to pretend that it was Eames he was blowing, just because he wondered how it would feel.

He'd never really pictured himself with anyone, and it wasn't like he was doing it now, but it was still odd to think about sucking Eames when Eames was around his own age. Wendy would probably consider it an improvement in choice, and he knew Eric would probably raise his hands to the heavens and shout hallelujah… but Neil honestly wasn't sure what this whole thing with Eames was.

Eames had spotted his vulnerable areas and was attempting to break through the walls Neil had built to protect himself. Honestly, Neil thought he should be running as far and as fast as he could from Eames, and yet he was rushing closer and closer to him, seeking out his approval.

Perhaps, Neil thought, Brian with his nosebleeds and fainting spells and sad, sad eyes had tainted the image of Coach somehow, leaving Neil stranded in the present with a tattered past hanging over him, no longer sure just what to believe. Perhaps he was replacing Coach's memory with another, with Eames, because Eames was there, and Eames was the closest thing he'd come to hustling since Brighton Beach.

No, he wouldn't allow himself to think about that. He thought about it enough as it was.

He just conceded to the fact that he had some things he needed to sort out… and some extra walls to build up and reinforce.

The man came with a rather unappealing grunt, and Neil did his best not to grimace as it filled his mouth. He pulled off and spit into the trash can and made sure not to shudder in the man's presence.

George got up and hurried into the connected bathroom to pull himself together, so Neil opened up his desk and dug out his little black book, then went through the man's jacket pockets until he found his wallet. He nabbed both of them, hiding them away in his own jacket, and then started looking through the files on his desk.

The man had a picture of him and his father there, next to a picture that had been turned down out of guilt. The picture was of his fiancée.

Neil knew then that someone had poisoned George's father. It just wasn't George.

He had a feeling George knew who it was though, and if his actual little secret had gotten out to anyone, Neil would bet it was them. Maybe this Cameron person.

This pointman stuff wasn't so hard.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Neil left the Winchester building and hopped onto the subway. The idiot hadn't even realized that he had been robbed.

No one seemed to give him a second look in his suit and tie while he stood, holding onto one of the poles. Normally he'd get at least one halfway disgusted look from someone, but apparently he just right blended in with the other business yokels riding the train. It made him feel a weird combination of proud and grossed out.

He went a few stops over from the one near Eames's hotel and then walked the rest of the way, still looking a bit weird he imagined, with his leather coat over his suit jacket, but he removed the coat when he got into the lobby, wandering by the front desk without so much as a glance and into the elevator.

While he was riding up, he looked through the man's black book, finding various numbers that he recognized from being a twink on the underground gay scene. He raised an eyebrow as he noted the marks of asterisks next to ones George apparently found very satisfying, a list of names scribbled underneath certain places. The first name in the book however was this Cameron fellow. Cameron apparently helped set George up with these people.

Really, the book only helped confirm everything Neil thought, so he was happy to step off of the elevator and go straight to Eames's room. He did have the forethought to knock this time instead of breaking in.

When the door opened, Neil was a little bowled over to see a woman standing there. Her hair was cut short and bright red, and she looked at him warily, as if expecting him to pull a gun on her immediately. A quick glance over her shoulder and Neil could see a couple of other people too, including a dark-skinned, bald headed man looking through some files and a Middle Eastern man holding a vile of some chemical up to the light. He was muttering something to Eames, so that meant he was still in the right place. Neil also noticed Ms. Red Hair had a pistol in her hand.

Eames looked up when he noticed the door open and seemed about to say something when he saw Neil and fell silent.

"Hi," Neil offered, not sure what else to say.

"What are you doing here?" Eames asked, and Ms. Red Hair stepped back, giving Eames a look.

"You know this guy?" she asked. "What the hell, Eames? We're _working_."

"I know, Sophie—just give me a moment."

Eames stepped out into the hall, shutting the door behind him. "Christ, I didn't even recognize you," he said, looking Neil up and down momentarily before frowning. "Why are you here?"

Neil lifted the little black book and placed it in Eames's hand before digging out the wallet and placing it in his other hand. "Thought this information could help you out. I told you I could do it."

Eames's gaze flattened. "You pilfered a wallet and a date book. How is this supposed to be at all helpful?"

"It's George Winchester Jr.'s wallet and date book. Oh, and he didn't poison his father. The secret he's keeping is from his fiancée. I'd look into his buddy Cameron though."

"Secret?" Eames said.

Neil nodded. "I was in his office. His father's picture is still sitting on his desk, but he turned down the picture of that lady you've been forging. Look in the book. He's gay."

Eames perused the names and numbers in the book, Neil occasionally piping up to offer that such-and-such was a gay bar that he'd hustled at or that this-or-that was a call service or that he knew Ian or Harry or Juan from his hustling days.

"The cherry on top is that he thought I was a prostitute hired for him when I showed up unexpectedly," Neil said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "All dressed to the nines and still look like a hooker. I guess it's my face or something."

Eames leveled him with his gaze. "You actually went into his office then?"

"I didn't really see another way to get the stuff you guys wanted, considering I can't afford the expensive shit you guys use for surveillance or whatever. It's not like he can trace me back to anyone. He didn't even know my name, and even if he figured it out, no one knows I know you except you."

 _And Wendy, but Wendy doesn't know Eames's name_ , he thought.

"He thought Cameron sent me up," Neil said. "I don't know who Cameron is, but he seems real important to George… and for the record this George guy doesn't seem like he even has the balls to do something like poison his dad. He's pretty boring and unremarkable. I doubt he'd even be able to be in the running for that company if it weren't for his last name. I honestly don't think he even wants it, but maybe this Cameron guy does."

Eames exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "This does change things."

Neil grinned, running his tongue along the top row of his own teeth before saying, "Does this mean you have to blow me now?"

The teasing statement brought up the sour tasting memory of George Winchester's cock on his tongue, but he didn't let it show on his face.

Eames rolled his eyes, but he did smile at the end of it. "This is some good stuff, Neil. Thanks… but please tell me you weren't stupid enough to come straight here?"

Neil pulled a face. "I do something smart, so you automatically think I'm stupid? I think you're stupid. No, I took the subway a few extra stops down and then walked here. No one was following me. Trust me, I would know if someone was."

He'd been looking over his shoulder every day since Brighton Beach, after all… but that thought made the gross taste in his mouth grow a little stronger, so he decided to let it lie.

Eames didn't look very satisfied in any sense, mumbling, "That's all you did then… mm…" He looked around and seemed to confirm that no one had followed Neil up and then sighed, looking satisfied. Neil just spent that time staring at Eames's mouth, remembering the kiss and remembering how he'd thought about it while sucking off George Winchester.

"Seriously though," Neil said softly. "Does this mean I can become a dreamer like you?... Come on, Eames… I haven't got anything going for me right now… I just… it'd be nice to have somewhat of a future to look forward to for once…"

It was oddly vulnerable of him to say, and he mentally chastised himself for it. Vulnerability had never served him well in the past, and he doubted it was going to now.

"Look… Neil," Eames said, sighing. "I do think you've got a talent for this, honest… but… it's just not as simple as all that. I don't have the power to just nod my head or twitch my nose and give you a position in this world. You can see that, can't you? You put on this suit, but the people there didn't see you as a business man. It's not as easy as playing the part."

Neil set his jaw, feeling like he was being scolded like a child after all of the good work he'd done. He wasn't really sure why it _hurt_ so much though.

"You have to earn your place in this business," Eames continued, and his voice was so calm and placating that it made Neil want to scream. "It takes time and a lot of practice. You said so yourself you can't afford the types of surveillance we use, and here's the thing. If you could afford it, that doesn't mean you'd know how to use it, understand? I can't just take you under my wing and consider you a part of this team. There's a lot more work involved than that. It's childish, frankly, to believe otherwise."

Neil sneered, taking a deep breath through his nose, and then he shoved a finger into Eames's face. "Look, you son of a bitch. I got the information on this guy that will blow this job wide open and probably saved your ass from failing miserably when he wouldn't tell his secrets to you. _I_ got that information, _and_ I did it in two days without the use of your fucking surveillance _**and**_ I did it for fucking free, so the least you can do is not patronize me like you're so much better than I am, you got that? I might not have been all over the world or inside the heads of every businessman who could afford to get their thoughts robbed, but I'm not a fucking idiot. I know how the world goddamn works, and I bet I've seen things that you haven't, so don't tell me what I can and can't do or I'll shove my foot so far up your ass you'll need a dentist to get it out."

Eames was silent for a moment, staring into Neil's eyes, and Neil realized then that he had crowded Eames up against the wall and they were inches apart and sharing the same air.

"I never meant to—" Eames started to say.

"Get my hopes up?" Neil interrupted. "You're a real bastard, Eames. I did a better job than the guy getting paid to do this, and you're leaving me out on the fucking curb. Why? Why won't you give me one goddamn chance? I've shown you what I can do, and you still treat me like a fucking… You're not that much older than me, you know. Just because you went into the army and ran away with your fucking tail between your legs doesn't mean you're better suited to this than I am."

"Neil—"

"No," Neil interrupted again, shoving Eames. "No, we're done. You can't pretend you haven't been stringing me along like your little puppet. You can go fuck yourself."

He pushed Eames again as he stepped away from him and started back towards the elevator. "Good luck on your fucking job. Consider yourself lucky I'm not going back to George and telling him what you're up to."

Just as the doors of the elevator were closing, Neil found them being shoved back open, and Eames was glaring at him, rosy faced with rage or embarrassment or some combination of both. Neil just stared back at him uncaringly, finger lingering on the door close button. "You want to know the real reason why I just turned you down?" Eames asked, voice cutting and raw.

Neil raised his eyebrows in challenge, as if to say _enlighten me_.

Eames climbed into the elevator and the doors slid shut behind him. "I turned you down because there's nothing wrong with the batch of somnacin we used to go into your dreams."

Neil didn't quite understand.

"All of that crazy shite that happened in your head was all on you. Do you really expect me to let someone with that fucked up of a subconscious work in this business? If you even have to think about that answer then you're stupider than I thought. Listen to me, Neil, and listen well, all right? You're a talented kid, and I admire how quickly you're able to pick up on things, but there's no way you're going to be of any use to anyone with your subconscious in the state that it's in, so if you want to be a part of this business it is still possible, but you're going to have to do some clean up on the inside first or at least entrust me with why it's in that state so I can help you."

Neil was breathing a little shakily by the end of Eames's spiel, standing in the corner and feeling six inches tall under Eames's gaze. He didn't let his face show fear though because that would be relinquishing the little bit of control Neil still had over the situation, and he couldn't let that happen. Not again. Not ever.

"Neil," Eames said, voice a little gentler, "just talk to me."

"Why should I?" Neil asked. "I barely know you. You're not the only person in the world that I have…" He was caged in by Eames though, and at that moment it sure felt like it was just the two of them. "How am I supposed to trust you with any of my secrets when no one else can? I thought I wasn't supposed to trust you any…way…"

Eames's hand was in Neil's hair again, causing some of the stiff, gelled strands to crunch a little and fall back onto his forehead in tufts, and the air around Neil suddenly seemed very, very warm, and he was caught in that familiar feeling that he got just before he was about to be kissed, and when he squeezed his eyes shut he could hear Coach whispering, " _Shh… angel…_ "

The ping of the elevator signaling the opening of the doors was nearly deafening, and Neil nearly gasped as the air around him was freed when Eames quickly stepped away. Eames's face was still rosy, but the anger was gone, and Neil thought the man must have forgotten where they were.

They stepped off in the lobby as a woman and her child got on. Neil looked back at the little boy and his large glasses, and for a bizarre second wanted to cry.

Eames stepped up close to Neil's shoulder, grabbing him gently by the arm and pulling him aside. "Look, Neil, I… I'm sorry, okay? I didn't… I didn't mean to come off as such a prat."

Neil looked at his feet and nodded, mumbling, "It's… it's okay… whatever…"

"It's just that… well, now's not a good time for me to talk about it, but… perhaps we could meet up later? I… I do want to give you a chance, Neil. I do. I think we got off on the wrong foot, yeah?"

Neil ventured a glance at him, not sure why he felt so shy, and said, "Fine… I've got work tonight though, so uh… you can just… I don't know, you can come to my apartment, I guess. I don't know if Wendy will be there or not, but uh… I get off work at like… nine, so…"

Eames nodded. "Okay, well, what's the address then?

Neil told him and then slipped back into his coat, wandering back out onto the street and leaving Eames in the lobby. For a long few seconds he just stood there on the street, watching the cars push by slowly in traffic, almost as if waiting for Eames to come after him. When he didn't, Neil turned and started walking.

He walked back towards his and Wendy's apartment, needing some air before he got onto the subway, and he pressed his fingertips to his lips as if to satisfy the unfinished feeling there. He wondered what would have happened if that woman and little boy hadn't gotten onto the elevator… well, he figured the doors would have opened anyway, but…

Neil shook his head, digging out a cigarette to put in place of his fingers. He was pretty sure his association with Eames was making him lose his mind, but like an addict looking for a fix, he couldn't quite stop himself from coming back again and again in the hopes of getting what he wanted (even though at this point he wasn't exactly entirely sure what that was anymore other than notoriety and lots of money).

He sat silently on the subway when he got on a few blocks later, and he wondered just how much he would have to reveal to be able to do this dreaming thing. If there was one thing he didn't like about this work it was that secret-stealers couldn't afford to have secrets…

…and yet he was still thinking about it because there just wasn't anything quite like building dreams, creating entire worlds strictly for oneself and letting the buildings stretch as high into the heavens as one desired.

There also wasn't anything quite like Eames in Neil's life, at least not so far… and perhaps it was worth the challenge to see how much he could hide from Eames in the long run. It was the same game from the dream, just happening in reality. He wasn't about to let Eames fool him into giving away that precious information. Instead he would build up his defenses inside until they were a forced to be reckoned with.

That had to be safer than the truth after all because Neil McCormick had been running from it for years.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Neil found it hard to focus on work that evening, but thankfully he'd never been too good at bothering with it so no one felt the need to ask him what was wrong. His co-workers didn't give a shit about him anyway, so even if he had tended to be a hard worker, he doubted they would have said anything.

It was a fairly slow night, so Neil spent a lot of his time daydreaming, doodling buildings on a napkin. He thought back to his dream world, one that seemed sort of vague and blurry now even though it had been so intense right there in the middle of it. He definitely remembered Coach had been there, and that his subconscious had rather violently attacked him. He definitely recalled the whimpering and scratching from behind the brick wall…

Neil drew the dream neighborhood where all of the insanity had taken place and then proceeded to put walls around it, big thick concrete ones with sharp spikes and barbed wire at the top. It reminded him a bit of the prison he'd passed by in Hutchinson on occasion, so he started drawing guard towers with little men inside holding guns. The biggest guard tower was in the middle of the place, on top of Coach's house, and he twirled barbed wire around the outside of it like lights on a Christmas tree. It really didn't look like much there on the napkin since Neil had never been much of an artist, but it made Neil feel oddly better just to see the walls and rails and weaponry protecting the neighborhood from being accessed.

He kept the drawing stashed away in his bag to look at whenever he needed a reminder.

* * *

Once Neil's shift ended, he started towards home. The wind was bitingly cold even when he was wearing his coat, and it made him want to crawl under a dozen blankets, jerk off, and fall asleep. He knew that wouldn't be his plan for the evening though, since he was supposed to meet Eames… he really wasn't entirely sure what there was to talk about at this point since Eames seemed far too hesitant to let Neil into the business and Neil had no intention on relinquishing any kind of secrets or control, but he decided to go straight home anyway to see if the man was waiting there.

It turned out that he _was_ which was surprising enough on its own considering Neil hadn't actually expected him to show. Eames was sitting on the stoop, bundled up in the same black coat from before, a pair of leather gloves, and a blue scarf. He definitely stood out in the neighborhood; it was honestly a miracle that he hadn't been jumped and robbed blind, but then again Eames looked pretty tough and quite possibly had his gun on his person.

"Hey," Neil said casually, tossing the cigarette he'd been smoking on the walk home down onto the ground and stubbing it out with the toe of his shoe.

"Hey," Eames parroted back, standing up and shaking himself a little to get the blood flow moving in his limbs again. "It's bloody cold, isn't it? I should've thought about that, I suppose."

"How long have you been here?" Neil snorted, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Only about twenty minutes," Eames shrugged, "but I'm freezing. I think my bollocks have ascended into my body from the cold."

Neil smirked, laughing a little. Eames grinned back at him, and it made Neil feel a little weird. It was a good weird, but he couldn't exactly pinpoint the source or the reason.

"Hey, before we go up, are you hungry? I haven't eaten a bloody thing in hours. Do you want to go grab something? I'll buy."

Neil's stomach growled as if on cue, and he remembered he hadn't eaten anything that day. He'd been a bit distracted after all. "Uh… yeah, I guess," he shrugged. "There's not anything to eat up at the apartment anyway."

Neil let Eames lead the way off the stoop and down the street, hunting down the nearest food place. He wasn't sure why he wasn't still furious with Eames, why he expected this to go somewhere when the man had been leading him on enough as it was… but he wanted to try. He had to, really, because he couldn't keep living the way he was living. The sub shop and the no sex and the repetition of it all was starting to make him go crazy. He hated it.

He hated even more that hustling was such a tug-of-war for him now too. No matter how many times he'd stopped in the past, inevitably he'd always gone back to it because it satisfied his need for fucking and it was the best way to make money that he knew. There was also this excitement brought with it, having sex with strangers, taking risks some people would deem too stupid to attempt. He liked the way it felt, to find these bigger, older men and have them completely and utterly at his mercy…

…but since Brighton Beach the thought had made his stomach twist. He was still as hungry for sex as he had ever been, but the idea of going out to the bars and letting himself be picked up by someone made his hands shake. He had this bizarre, irrational fear that it would happen again, that Brighton Beach john would be at the bar, or someone else just like him would throw him up against the wall and beat him and fuck him until he passed out… He'd had gruesome, terrifying fantasies about it, just like the one he'd had about Eames the night they met. They always ended with him dying somewhere, bleeding and cold and alone.

He did his best not to think about it, but it was hard not to whenever the world around him fell quiet. Sometimes when he closed his eyes at night he could still hear the water swirling down the drain, the sound of someone sobbing, and the distant echo of carolers crooning out "Silent Night."

They wandered into the nearest McDonalds, and Neil let Eames order for him, settling into a booth and pulling one knee up to his chest, hunched into his coat. The man showed up a few minutes later with a tray covered in burgers and fries.

"You know, considering how rich you are, you could have taken me somewhere nice," Neil teased, but it was halfhearted at best. His thoughts were weighing down his sense of humor.

"I'll keep that in mind. I suppose you're not a cheap date with your boyfriends then, hm? You like to be romanced?"

Neil really laughed this time, even though it tasted bitter in his mouth. "I'm not exactly the boyfriend type," he said, unwrapping his burger and taking a bite, ketchup smearing a little on the corner of his mouth. "Not really the dating type either."

"Is that so?" Eames asked, munching his own meal. "Do you just not like the whole commitment thing or…?"

Neil shifted uncomfortably and looked out the window. "A guy who sells himself for money isn't exactly boyfriend material, don't you think? Why are we talking about this? It's fucking stupid."

"Sorry," Eames snorted. "I thought you didn't do that anymore is all, so I figured you'd… you know, been on dates and such."

Neil glanced at him from the corner of his eye, taking another bite of food. "I can always start up again if I need money," he said, even though he wasn't entirely sure how true or false that was. "Besides, the guys I tend to fuck around with aren't exactly looking for someone like me to be around all the time. They're usually balding, fat, forty-somethings that are hiding in the closet."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "That's your type then?"

Neil shrugged, looking away again.

"So, why did you proposition me? I mean… I don't exactly fit into any of those categories. Please don't tell me I already look like I'm in my forties."

Neil squirmed again. "What's with the third degree? Are you looking for some kind of answer in particular?"

"No, not necessarily. I'm just… I'm trying to understand."

"Why?" Neil asked defensively, turning on him then. "So I'll tell you all of my secrets?"

Eames shook his head, holding his hands up in a placating fashion. "No, not exactly… It's just so that you know you can trust me with them if you decide to share. I don't take anyone's secrets unless I'm paid to. Working in the business that I do, I know how important they are…"

The fight drained out of Neil, and he returned to his meal. They were both quiet for a few minutes. Neil was halfway through his fries before he spoke, and when he did it was softly. "So… is this why you're here? To understand me? You said you wanted to give me a chance, but… I don't really know what that means."

"I…" Eames started, stopped, and started over. "Well, I've seen what you can do, Neil… and I do think it's impressive work. I think with practice and effort you could not only be one of us, but be one of the _best_ of us. I was angry before, but… I realized I was sort of ruling you out without actually giving you a chance… just because your subconscious is a little violent. I rejected you a bit quickly, but… Well, you have to understand how frightening it is. I've never seen a subconscious quite like yours. The projections will turn on trespassers in the mind should they become aware of them, but I've never seen them treat the dreamer like they don't belong."

Neil popped a fry into his mouth and took a swig from the straw of his soda. "Maybe there's just… certain parts of my mind that no one should go to," Neil said quietly.

"You should be able to go anywhere in your own mind. It's the only place that's safe from anyone else," Eames said.

"Yeah," Neil snorted, "except for you and your friends."

A corner of Eames's mouth twitched upwards. "Yes, well… good point."

* * *

They walked back to Neil's apartment after they finished eating, both of them seeming to feel marginally better. It was a welcome relief to get inside, even though Neil had to shove the door hard with his shoulder to get it open and it wasn't all that much warmer inside than out. "Home sweet home," he said flatly, and even though he very seldom was embarrassed over anything, he was beginning to wish he'd at least picked up a little before going to work. Wendy was actually somewhat clean except for her tendency to leave her clothes lying around, but Neil had never had much use for cleaning. The suit from earlier that day was on the floor in increments from where he'd peeled it off one garment at a time, the ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts, and half of a sandwich from the day before yesterday was still sitting on a plate near the couch where he'd taken a nap.

Neil shed his coat and tossed it over the arm of the couch and then went searching through the fridge until he found the cheap beer he and Wendy had split the cost on. He tossed a can to Eames and then cracked one open for himself. "So," he said, glancing at the note on the front of the refrigerator from Wendy saying she'd be back a little after midnight, "what now? Is this where you tell me I should see a therapist or something or…?"

Eames breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, looking a bit vexed. "No, I'm not going to suggest therapy to someone who I know wouldn't take it even if he thought it would help… I guess all I can do at this point is ask you this: how much are you willing to sacrifice to become a dreamer like me? How precious are these secrets to you that you keep them even from yourself?"

Neil didn't answer either question because he didn't exactly know how.

"I know you won't leave it be," Eames continued. "Even if you get angry with me and decide to say 'fuck this nonsense' I know you'll come back to dreaming. It's like bloody heroin or something. You can't just do it once. You'll want to try it again. It's too incredible. I was the one stupid enough to think I could keep you away… but I want to know if you legitimately believe you're cut out for this, no—if your subconscious is cut out for this work."

Neil stared back at Eames for several seconds, and then the man seemed to crumple a little.

"Don't look at me like that," he said softly.

Neil blinked. "Like what?"

"Like I'm breaking your heart right now…"

"I don't have a heart."

Eames set his beer down and took a few steps towards him. "Oh, is that the case? Then why do you look so sad?"

Neil looked at the floor and then at Eames who was now standing only about a foot away from him. "I want this," Neil said, lifting his hands and holding them open, like he could carry the dream in his hands. "I want to get out of here and do shit and see things. I'm tired of feeling like I'm going nowhere, running in circles trying to get my hands on something that might not even exist… I want to get away from… I mean… I can be so much more than who I am down there… and I actually feel like I'm fucking good at something, you know?... but I don't know what to do now. I don't know if I can do this thing I really want to do because my brain keeps setting me up for failure. I just… I want to be able to live freely, you know? I want to be able to afford to buy my mom a nice house and to travel wherever the fuck I please."

Eames ran a hand through Neil's hair. "You know, you certainly talk like you have a heart, Mr. Tin Man."

"Are you seriously making _Wizard of Oz_ jokes now?" Neil asked, setting his own beer down onto a nearby shelf.

"Sorry," Eames said, and his hand drifted down to the side of Neil's face, thumb pressed gently right where his dimple would be if he were smiling. "I tend to try and diffuse things with terrible jokes, I guess… but I do want to help you, Neil… I just don't know what it is I need to do to be able to do that."

Neil watched him for a minute and thought about saying something worthwhile, but instead said, "You still owe me a blow job."

Eames laughed, shoulders shaking with it, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to Neil's. "I don't know if that your way of evading talking about your personal life, but it's a pretty blunt way to go about it if so."

"I told you I haven't been fucked in a while, so you can't exactly blame me," Neil replied, grinning a little too even though it felt a bit nauseous. "All I'm saying is, I could travel the world with you as your hired concubine or something and then I can get your money and play with the PASIV device without ever risking your job. Fucking's all I've ever been good for."

It was a joke, but Eames didn't seem to find it funny. He pulled away a little to look into Neil's eyes and said softly, "Did somebody tell you that?"

"I sort of figured it out for myself," Neil replied, eyebrows furrowing a bit. He didn't understand what the problem was. Eames looked legitimately concerned. "Uh, hello? I told you I was a hustler… stop looking at me all sad like that. It was a joke for God's sake."

Neil fell silent after that, and Eames didn't say anything either. Eames's hand was still cupped around Neil's jaw, and Neil's hands were planted against Eames's chest, and for a second there things were feeling _charged_. Neil recognized the feeling from when they were in the elevator, but this time he was able to notice the insecurity bleeding out of Eames's gaze, the hesitance in his fingertips.

"Are you like… attracted to me?" Neil asked suddenly. It wouldn't have been the first time a guy his age had been into him (he was sure Eric had pages upon pages of sappy, depressing poetry about it in that journal he was always carrying around), but this was the first time anyone had shown such a grand amount of reluctance to act on those feelings, and Neil for one didn't know why Eames was so afraid.

Eames didn't move except to swallow and blink. "I can't do this," he said, barely above a whisper.

"Do what?" Neil responded, equally quiet, and he could feel his heart thrumming like a hummingbird's wings inside his chest.

"This," Eames said, and pulled Neil flush with him, kissing him just like before in the hotel room. Neil's arms instantly winded around Eames's shoulders since they didn't really have anywhere else to go, and he tilted his head into the kiss, opening up to let Eames slip his tongue inside.

The excitement Neil was feeling was similar to what he usually felt during times like these, but there was a surprising lack of danger in it that was oddly refreshing. He wasn't sure why he didn't fear Eames, considering the man was probably the most dangerous man he'd ever met, but he didn't really care to think about it at the moment when the man's hands were on his hips, sliding ever slowly up underneath his shirt.

Neil only broke contact with Eames to get in a gulp of air and then dived back in, mouthing at his jaw a little before meeting his lips again, and one of Eames's hands found its way into Neil's hair, and then Neil was pressed up against the nearby wall, rocking his hips against Eames's to get a good friction going. Eames's hands were cool against his skin, despite the fact that he'd been wearing gloves while outside, and Neil whined a little when he thumbed against one of his nipples.

Eames caught the sound in the back of his throat and then moved to kiss the corner of Neil's mouth, the hinge of his jaw, the pulse point on his neck, and time seemed to slow down. Neil closed his eyes, tilting his head back to offer Eames more of his neck, letting out slow and slightly ragged breaths. His hands were trembling against Eames's shoulders, and he wasn't sure if it was because he was turned on or mildly terrified (and if he was terrified, he wasn't sure what of). His thighs were pressed against the sides of Eames's left leg, and he could feel his erection straining his zipper, but even through all of that there was something weirdly different here that Neil couldn't identify, and he didn't know what to do with that information.

Eames moved his leg a little, and Neil whimpered again, and then Eames came back up to press a gentle kiss to Neil's lips, and Neil realized the desperation was missing again, replaced with this weird tenderness that Eames seemed to have a knack for. Neil just wasn't used to such a thing.

"You're so much more than you think you are," Eames breathed, pressing his cheek to Neil's. "I'm so sorry anyone ever made you think otherwise…"

Neil didn't know why, but that sentence made him want to cry.

For a moment they both just froze there, hearts rapidly pounding against their ribcages, and just when it seemed they were about to get back to it, there was the sound of the door opening, and they quickly scattered from each other.

Wendy shoved her way in the same way Neil had, tossing some of her hair over her shoulder, mumbling, "Got off work early—Oh."

Neil looked at Eames and then at Wendy, back at Eames, and then at the floor, tugging the tail of his shirt down where it had ridden up. "Hey Wendy," he said awkwardly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Wendy took a few seconds to look at Eames before saying anything. Neil could tell she was sizing him up, trying to understand just what he was doing in their apartment feeling up her roommate when he wasn't anything like the boys Neil tended to fancy. Neil knew that Wendy wasn't stupid enough to think they were doing anything else even if they had shoved off of each other as soon as she came in, and he knew that she wasn't stupid enough to not make the connection that he must be the man Neil had told her about before. He just knew Wendy that well, but he appreciated that she seemed to play along anyway.

"Who's this?" she asked, pointing to Eames.

Eames, awkward, held out his hand. "Ah, hi, I'm Eames," he said and shook her hand. Wendy looked at their connected hands and then up at Eames's eyes, studying him a little.

"Wendy," she replied a bit tartly. She was suspicious of him regardless of who he was. It was a trait she'd picked up living in NYC and one she had constantly told Neil to learn to no avail. "Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Eames?"

"—Ah," Eames started to say.

"Or should I just take a walk so you can keep humping my roommate?" she interrupted, adopting the shit-eating smile on her face that she usually got when she was knocking someone off guard and enjoying it.

"Um," Eames said.

Wendy let go of his hand and turned to Neil, raising her eyebrows, waiting for an explanation. Neil honestly wasn't entirely sure what to say. _Hey, this is the guy who taught me to go into people's dreams and steal things but also we're kind of in this weird place where we're kind of into each other even though he's not my type_ didn't exactly sound like something he would say. Besides, he couldn't let Eames know he'd told Wendy about the dreaming thing, and it wasn't like she would believe he was his boyfriend.

"Maybe… maybe I should just go," Eames said when the silence had dragged on a bit longer than he was comfortable with.

Neil knew that, with Eames gone, he could come up with something to tell Wendy, but oddly enough he didn't want him to leave.

"Ah," Eames said as he moved towards the door, picking up his coat and scarf where he'd left it and grabbing the gloves out of the pocket, "perhaps tomorrow we can reconvene about… about all this stuff, Neil. Sounds good, yeah?"

"Uh… yeah, whatever," Neil said softly.

"If you're coming back here, bring a gift next time, Mr. Eames," Wendy called out after him, eyes dancing with delight.

Eames looked back at her, seeming to have recovered because he was offering his typical charming, crooked-toothed grin, and said, "but of course, my dear Wendy. Do you prefer flowers or chocolates or beautiful expensive things?"

"Do you have to ask?" she asked and Eames chuckled, shutting the door behind him. Neil stared at the door even after he was gone from it.

Then, Wendy did something unexpected. "Oh, my God, you like him!" she said, laughter in her voice. "I don't even believe it!"

"What? What're you talking about?" Neil asked, looking at her like she was insane.

"That's the guy, right? The dreams guy."

"Yeah, but what does that have to do with—"

"Don't be a fucking idiot, Neil. I saw you two."

"I make out with guys all the time," Neil said, and that wasn't really true, but it was close enough to the truth to feel true.

"I'm not talking about the shit you were doing against the wall even though ew—seriously, don't do it in my living room just because I'm not here, Neil, come on. I'm talking about that _look_."

"What look?"

"The look! On your face! Right now!" she said, pointing to his nose. "That one!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's that same goofy, doe-eyed look that Eric used to give you. I _know_ that look, okay?"

Neil's eyes widened in horror. "I am not giving off some goofy, doe-eyed look, Wendy. Who do you think I am?"

"I know who you are, and I know that to say that Neil McCormick cares about anyone but himself is ludicrous, but I know that look, Neil. I've seen that look a million times… and even if you _didn't_ have that look, I would know that something was going on here because c'mon, Neil, when's the last time you ever brought someone home? Someone _your age_ I might add? The answer is never, by the way, in case you didn't know."

Neil sighed, leveling her with a glare, but she didn't look at all interested in backing down from how she felt about the situation. Her expression did lose some of its humor and astonishment though. "Neil," she continued, brushing a stray strand of hair off of his ear, "it's not a bad thing, you know. To like someone… an actual romantic relationship might be good for you, Neil… maybe… Maybe it's time to move on from how you used to behave. Maybe this Mr. Eames guy is giving you a fresh start in more than one way."

Something in Neil's chest squeezed in a weird, somewhat unpleasant way, and it must have shown on his face, because Wendy put an arm around him in a loose hug. "I know… it's hard, yeah, and probably kind of scary, but you'll be okay. You know I'm here for you if you need anything, right?"

Neil lowered his face into her hair, closed his eyes, and breathed.

* * *

When Neil woke up, it was still early, and Wendy was draped over him, snoring softly. He kissed the top of her head before detangling himself from her and sauntered into the bathroom. After doing his business and splashing water on his face, he looked up and stared at his reflection.

 _A fresh start_ , he thought, then patted his face dry. _Stupid_.

Neil wasn't sure where Wendy was getting these ideas. He couldn't possibly have looked quite as pathetic as Eric had back when they lived in Hutchinson together, could he? Besides, a _romantic relationship_? Neil had never been capable of one of those in his entire life, except for maybe Coach…

…but Neil had been doing some thinking about that these days, and he wasn't entirely sure if it counted anymore…

This wasn't about him though, so Neil dismissed it before he got that nauseous feeling again. He threw on his coat and hurried out the door, heading down to the corner store to get a pack of cigarettes.

 _Like_ Eames? Sure, he _liked_ Eames well enough. He was a nice guy, and he had a kickass job. He was good looking and a fucking great kisser, and it was also oddly refreshing to have a man to talk to who wasn't just interested in fucking (even if most of the time that was all Neil had been interested in). Still, the idea of _being_ with Eames in that sense made Neil's stomach feel queasy and made that slight tickle of panic appear in his chest and throat. It just wasn't something that Neil McCormick did.

He bought his cigarettes and started back towards home, lighting one up as soon as he got back onto the street. The burn in his lungs felt good and made him feel a little more awake, which was great because he didn't jump back in shock when he arrived at the stoop to find Eames climbing the stairs to the front door.

"Oh," Eames said when he turned to find Neil standing there. "Well, there you are then, hm. I didn't actually expect you to be up and about."

Neil shrugged, wondering why his chest felt tight for a moment. "Here I am," he said and blew smoke rings at Eames.

"Well, I suppose I only came by to talk to you about last night," Eames said bluntly, and Neil leaned against the doorway to listen. "Ah… I guess I should apologize for sort of… jumping you like that."

Neil felt the urge to tell Eames that apparently he had no idea what it meant to jump someone, but he refrained.

"What I'm trying to say is… I mean, I just wanted you to know that I'm not trying to imply that I only want you around for your body, yeah? I really did mean the things I said about your talent… and I wanted you to know that you're wrong… that you are good for more than fucking… um…" Eames looked at his feet, awkward and blushing, and Neil was a bit bowled over because no one had ever acted or said anything like that to him before.

…but if Eames didn't just want sex from Neil, then what did he want?

"It's… it's fine," Neil said. "I mean… y'know. Don't worry about it."

Eames offered a sheepish grin. "Yes. Right. Thanks. I mean, my job doesn't really lend to relationships too well, so it's… it's been some time for me, and I like you quite a lot, Neil. I think you're…"

"Sexy?" Neil asked, raising his eyebrows, and honestly that was the answer he expected.

"Smart," Eames replied instead, surprising Neil. He then added, "You're funny, and you're cunning, and you're interesting. Yes, you are sexy, I suppose, but I have absolutely no need for sexy people if they haven't got anything else to show for it. I know it seems a little hard to believe, but I'm really not a one-night-stand kind of guy when I can help it, so…"

Neil looked at his feet, that tight feeling in his chest growing even tighter. "You keep talking about me like you know me so well," Neil mumbled. "We only met like… a few days ago or some shit. You don't even know my last name."

"What is it then?" Eames asked, venturing to take a step closer there in the doorway. "Your last name?"

"McCormick," he said, watching Eames, feeling eerily vulnerable. "Neil McCormick… but that doesn't change the fact that you don't know shit about me."

"Well, I know you're young and handsome and smart. I know you've got a talent for dreaming, that your eyes are blue. I know your address and your roommate Wendy, who I assume must be from the same place you're originally from given the accent. I know you used to be a prostitute, and I know that something inside of you is hurt and broken, and I know that you are so, so, so much more than you think you are… How am I doing so far?"

Neil realized Eames had crowded in on him again, both of them breathing the same air once more as the man had listed off the things he already knew about Neil.

"It's a good start," Neil offered weakly.

"Ah, see, and that's the best thing about meeting someone you like. It's that you get to know them."

"I don't feel like I know anything about you at all," Neil said softly.

"As a forger I'm good at reading people and hiding any tells I might have from others. I apologize," Eames said. "Do you want to go get some breakfast? My team is rendezvousing in a little over an hour back at my hotel room, but we could grab a quick bite if you're interested."

Neil didn't know what else to say besides, "Okay."

* * *

Eames dragged Neil to a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop a few streets over and settled at a table in the corner away from the rest of the patrons. Neil munched on a couple of donuts and sipped coffee while Eames spread cream cheese onto a half of a bagel.

"Now… that whole spiel on the stoop this morning wasn't the only reason why I came back," Eames said at length, pausing to dig in his coat. "I thought it also might be pertinent to bring you this."

He handed Neil a manual, and Neil studied the cover for a moment. "The PASIV device manual?" he questioned.

"Yes, well, you need to at least seem like you know everything there is to know about it."

"What for?" Neil asked, flipping through the pages.

"Well, after I gave my team that information you fetched for me, we ended up firing our current pointman, so I thought, since it's a last minute sort of thing, that we'd hire you on to fill the slot."

Neil nearly dropped the manual, looking up at Eames in shock. "Are you fucking serious right now? Please, _please_ tell me you're not pulling my leg."

"I'm serious," Eames replied, grinning. "I told you that I wanted to give you a chance, and I'm not going to backtrack on that this time. Besides, this current job won't actually require you to go under, so any issues your subconscious might have don't matter right now. What you'll need to do is—"

Neil did manage not to whoop with joy, but he still tugged Eames across the table and gave him a quick kiss, nearly bouncing out of his seat as he did so. "Holy shit, Eames!" he said, and he was positively _beaming_.

Eames laughed a little breathlessly, having been caught off guard by the kiss. "You're welcome, but now listen, all right? For this job, you're quite possibly the most important element even though you won't be under with us. You'll be up on the surface, keeping watch and being ready with the kick music when the timer on the PASIV hits a certain number of minutes. You're also to administer the kick should something go awry, understand?"

Neil nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Sure, yeah, but what's a kick?"

Eames slipped his foot underneath the lifted leg of Neil's chair and gave it a gentle push, nearly sending him careening backwards. "That feeling of falling that awakens you is what we refer to as the kick," Eames said, smiling. "You can just tip our chairs back to wake us up because the sedative on this dream is fairly light."

"Okay," Neil said. "So, I just stand around and watch you guys sleep then?"

"Pretty much, and stand guard. You know how to shoot a gun, right?"

He didn't, had never touched one, but he still said, "Of course I do." It couldn't be that hard to do after all.

"Brilliant, then I think you're all set," Eames said. "I'll need you to really read this manual though. I want you to know the PASIV in and out, backwards and forwards."

"No problem," Neil replied.

"Oh," Eames added, leaning forward on the table, "there's one more thing that you'll need for this job, and I'll need it fairly quickly so that I can get your paperwork in order."

"Paperwork?" Neil asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yes, records, passports, etcetra. What I'm going to need from you is a codename that people can refer to you with. Nothing stupid, just a normal name that doesn't look suspicious. It not only keeps things off your actual record, but it protects your loved ones should you be captured or should someone actually seek you out to capture or harm you."

Neil paused, trying to think of a name as he continued eating his breakfast. He wanted something different and cool to be his codename, but he couldn't think of anything that suited him.

"If I may venture out and give you a couple of ideas maybe?" Eames offered, and Neil nodded since suggestions could only help at this point. "You shouldn't use a name of someone you know, so friends and relatives are out, and it shouldn't sound terribly similar to your actual name… mm…" He paused to study Neil's face, and Neil fought the urge to squirm in his seat a little under his gaze. "Now, ah… do you like science fiction novels?"

A mental picture of Brian flashed through Neil's brain. "Not really."

"Well, there's the author—you've probably heard of him, the bloke who wrote the original novel _2001: A Space Odyssey_ , yeah? He was allegedly a homosexual and a bit self-absorbed, but a lovely bloke… at least that's what I read. That sort of reminds me of you a bit, so what do you think about the name Arthur?"

Neil actually thought it was sort of a geeky, stupid name, or at least he would have if anyone else had said it. The way it rolled off of Eames's tongue though just made it sound incredibly cool.

"There's also that whole stigma about the brave King Arthur in the old medieval stories too," Eames added. "I really think it could suit you well."

Neil nodded, leaning his chin onto his palm. "I like it," he decided.

"Brilliant then," Eames said. "Arthur it is."

Neil smiled and took another gulp of his coffee.

"Oh," Eames added, digging in his pocket until he found some folded up bills, "and buy yourself a nice suit, tailored if possible. Presentation is key, after all."

"Thanks," Neil said, accepting the money, trying not to let his eyes bug out at the sheer amount of it.

"I shall retrieve you in a few days and introduce you to the team then," Eames said, grinning, "Arthur."

All Neil could hear was Wendy's words echoing in his ears.

A fresh start.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Neil had never been the type to read when it was an assignment. Hell, it was hard to get him to read a book for pleasure honestly, but when Eames handed him the PASIV device manual, he had immediately started studying it like he'd never studied anything before. For the rest of the day he didn't take his nose out of it, reading up on the mechanisms and what-went-where.

Perhaps it was just more interesting than any school things he'd ever had to read, but deep down Neil knew that the reason he was reading through the manual so thoroughly was because he knew Eames would only give him one opportunity like this and he certainly didn't want to fuck it up.

The only time he set it down was when he went out to find himself a good suit like Eames had wanted. He took the subway downtown and walked into the fancy-looking menswear store he'd seen before and was instantly overwhelmed. Once he was inside, he realized just how out of his element he actually was and took a few minutes to just stand there and stare as he tried to adjust. He didn't know how to ask for a suit or what kind or what color. He honestly wasn't sure if the money Eames gave him was even enough for suits like these. He didn't know how much a suit could cost, and even though the money in his hand was more money than he'd make in two months of hustling, he had no idea if it would be enough for these high fashion kinds of things… but Eames had said to get something nice, and these seemed pretty nice.

Thankfully the clerk seemed to notice his desperation and asked him what he was looking for.

"Uh, a nice suit tailored to fit me… How much can this get me?" he asked and held out the bills to the guy.

The clerk nodded, counting them out before saying, "I think I know just the thing."

Neil ended up being shown a pale gray English-cut (whatever that meant) tweed suit and having an older man wrap a tape measure around different parts of his body. The clerk showed him different shirts and ties which Neil in the end could only shrug at, but after several hours of frustrating back-and-forths between the tailor and the clerk and a very confused Neil McCormick, he was sent out and told to come back in three days for his final fitting.

* * *

Neil stopped at a bar on his way back to the apartment. It was pretty much deserted since it was the middle of the day, but he still slid into a corner booth and ordered a beer after flashing his fake I.D.

He sat there, thumbing through the PASIV device manual again and then put it away. In his bag he found the mail he'd gathered a few days ago but hadn't yet bothered to look at. In the stack of junk mail and a couple of bills (he should probably get those to Wendy, he thought), he found a letter from Eric.

He ripped open the envelope just as his beer arrived, and he offered a nod of thanks to the waitress before starting to read.

 _Hey Neil,_ it started, and that wasn't like him because usually he'd start it off with a cute insult just like Wendy did. He swigged at his beer and continued.

_I don't know if you'll read this since God knows I don't know if you ever read my other letters. That's sort of why people are supposed to send letters back. Anyway, I'm really not completely sure what to say, but I've been writing and rewriting this letter for about two weeks, so I figure I might as well just get it done already and stop being such a pussy about it._

_I don't know what happened that night you and Brian met, and I know it's not any of my business, but I don't know where else to turn. I haven't been able to get in touch with him since that night, and I'm starting to get really scared that something really bad has happened to him. I went by his house and talked to his mom, and she said that he seemed fine and was just busy with schoolwork, but he won't answer my calls, and he's taken to ignoring my letters just like you always have._

_Please, please tell me what went on that night. I already have a pretty good idea, but I'd like to hear it from one of you. I know he doesn't really mean anything to you, but Brian means a lot to me, and if I mean anything at all to you, you'll at least give me some clue. Please, Neil, please, I really don't ask you for much, you know? I just want to be able to help him. I can't sleep and I can't eat and I'm pretty sure I'm going bonkers over all of this, so seriously, write me back or at least call me or something._

_Eric_

Neil stared at the letter, taking note of where the ink smudged. It looked like Eric had started to cry while writing it.

He took another swig of his beer and stared out the window of the shop, and he thought about the whimpering and the scratching on the brick walls of his subconscious, thought about Brian in his lap that night, bleeding all over Neil's jeans, sobbing pathetically in the still, quiet living room of Coach's house.

It made Neil feel sick.

He got up and wandered over to the payphone and slid a few quarters in. It took a few minutes to remember what Eric's phone number even was, but he punched it in and waited while he was connected and while it rang a few times.

His grandmother answered, a soft, tinny voice over the line. "Hello?"

"Um…" Neil said, looking down at the letter in his hand. "Looking for Eric?"

There was a moment where he heard the phone get set down, a muffled call of the boy's name, and then the sound of it being picked back up. "This is Eric." He sounded ragged, like he hadn't slept in days.

"Eric," Neil said, and paused momentarily to breathe. He wasn't sure why he felt so bad all of a sudden. "Eric, I just read your letter, um…"

"Neil," Eric said on the other end, his voice sounding far away because of the terrible connection but still clear enough for Neil to tell that it was wobbling. "I didn't expect you to call me or write me or anything."

"I'm just full of surprises," Neil said solemnly. "I can't… I can't tell you the details about what happened… not here. I'm in a bar right now, you know, uh… but I'm hoping to come into some money soon, like… like really good money, so… So, I just thought that I'd tell you I can come back out there to Hutchinson when I can afford to, and… and I'll see if there's any way I can help."

"You don't have to do all that," Eric said, his voice raw and shaky. "I don't even understand why you'd want to."

Neil paused, thinking about it. "Because… I owe Brian that much, I guess, and… because… you're my friend."

Eric sniffed on the other end of the line, and Neil realized that he'd never told Eric anything even close to that before. For the first time since he'd met Eric, he genuinely gave pause to think about the boy—awkward, queer, shipped off to middle-of-nowhere Hutchinson, Kansas because his parents were dead, being abandoned by Neil who ran off to New York the first chance he got, and now being ignored by Brian who was probably the only friend he had left.

Neil had never really taken the time to think about anyone but himself, and he wondered why he did that.

"W… well, hey," Neil continued before Eric could get more emotional since Neil wasn't quite sure how to deal with that. "It might be better to just… you know, talk to him. Don't take no for an answer. If his mom knows where he is, demand you speak to him. No one ever got anywhere by giving up, and… and if he means as much to you as you say he does, then you'll fucking do it, you understand? Take a ladder with you and break into his bedroom if you have to…"

"I don't even…" Eric tried to say, and Neil could imagine he was shaking his head. "Okay. You're right. I guess there's a part of me holding back out of fear… but Neil… I know you can't tell me everything, but at least tell me this… Does… does this have anything to do with the man's voice on that cassette tape in your drawer?"

Neil fell deathly silent. "How do you know about that?" he asked after a beat.

"I found it. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have listened to it, but I did, and… just tell me…"

Neil took in a deep breath, clutching the phone so tightly that his knuckles were white. "Yeah," he said. "It does. He was the baseball coach for our little league team."

He didn't get to say goodbye because the line went dead, asking for more quarters to continue the conversation. He hung up and returned to his seat, finished off his beer, and left the money on the table.

He ditched work at the sub shop that night and instead, for some reason, just went out and wandered the streets until the cold had him so numb that he couldn't feel anything. He took a pale white rock and sketched a crude picture of a UFO on the side of an abandoned building, and then he wrote Brian's name underneath it, touching each letter with his fingertips.

He scratched his fingers there for a moment, bringing to mind the sound from his dream.

…and he really did hope that he was all right.

* * *

He told Wendy about the suit shop the next evening after work while they passed a joint back and forth, his head propped in her lap. He kept the letter from and conversation with Eric to himself for the time being, choosing instead to try and focus on the upcoming job. He discovered with a bit of surprised delight that putting the name Arthur into his arsenal was more than just a name. When he needed not to think about Neil McCormick things, he could slide fairly easily into Arthur's skin, and it made things a little easier. He was, after all, good at building walls.

"I never thought I'd see the day that Neil McCormick would willingly go purchase a suit," she said. "It's so fucking freaky."

"Well," he said a bit sleepily, coughing a little as he handed the joint to her, "these are like… expensive and tailored, and it comes with—I don't know, extra stuff, so I won't look like one of those business cubicle yuppies or anything. Maybe I'll look like a kickass lawyer or something. You should come with me."

"Of course I'm coming with you. You think I'm going to miss this opportunity? I'll even buy you that stuff they use to make their hair all oily."

Neil laughed, closing his eyes as she ran her fingers through his hair. "When I'm rich I'll help you get that full back tattoo you want."

"I'm holding you to that."

She kissed his forehead gently, and he fell asleep.

* * *

The days seemed to drag by. Neil had read the PASIV handbook enough times that he as pretty sure he'd memorized it, so he'd put it aside. Wendy woke him up early to go get his suit, since she had to be at work in the afternoon, and he rolled his eyes at her and laughed when she presented him with a canister of pomade.

They made the trek downtown together, Neil looking awkward with his slicked back hair and street clothes, sharing a cup of coffee and with him occasionally dozing on her shoulder. When he got into the store he was almost instantly whisked away into the fitting room. He was helped into (not that he'd asked) the soft gray suit from before. The shirt underneath was a dark navy, and there was a vest and belt and pocket square and a gray-and-white striped tie, and honestly Neil wasn't sure what was happening or what was going where until he was sliding his feet into a pair of matching loafers.

He smoothed his hands over his hair to fix anything that had fallen out of place, and he realized that he'd never felt more comfortable in his life. Maybe it was because he'd never had clothes that fit him quite this well, but it felt absolutely incredible. "We've also got a trench coat for you," the clerk, who had been there the day Neil had come in, said.

"Do I look good?" Neil asked him, and the man nodded, looking impressed. Neil tended to find that most people were surprised by how nicely he cleaned up, considering the earring and little boy haircut. He turned towards the mirror and jumped back a little when he saw himself.

Well, he didn't look like the business yuppie he had in the cheap suit he'd borrowed, that was for sure. He would even suffice to say he looked better than a kickass lawyer. He certainly looked more handsome and presentable than George Winchester Jr. ever could.

He left the fitting room, finding Wendy fiddling with her portable cassette player, looking bored. He grinned and walked quietly up behind her, hands in his pockets, and whispered in her ear, "Boo." She jolted and turned to scold but her words fell silent on her lips.

"Neil?" she questioned, and she sounded as though she genuinely didn't believe it.

"Not bad, right?" Neil said, turning around to show her the whole outfit. He normally wasn't a fan of these types of clothes, but even he had to admit that he looked pretty damn good. He wondered what Eames would think.

"I don't go for dudes in suits but I would definitely fuck you if you picked me up in that."

The workers in the store seemed a bit appalled by her language, but Neil didn't give a damn. He'd paid them a lot of money so they could keep their opinions to themselves. "Well, if this new job doesn't work out, I suppose I could sell myself to a higher quality clientele," he said, winking because he knew she'd understand.

"If this new job doesn't work out, your Mr. Eames is going to be agitated he wasted so much money."

"He's got money to waste."

He didn't correct her about saying that Mr. Eames was _his_ though.

* * *

Neil had just enough money left over to hail a taxi back to their apartment, and even though he knew pretty much everything it said, he read over the PASIV manual one more time. It was better than getting the eye from the driver who seemed to think he and Wendy didn't fit together so well when he was dressed this way and probably assumed she was a prostitute. If only the man knew how backwards he had it.

As they got out of the taxi, Neil spotted Eames standing on the doorstep, and frankly it was impressive how impeccable their timing had been. A wave of anxiety still flooded through him, but Neil was nothing if not adaptable, so he put on the impassive expression he usually wore in situations like this, and crawled out of the car.

"Hope you brought me a gift," Wendy called out to Eames.

Eames turned at the sound of the voice. "Of course I did," he said and then instantly fell silent when he saw Neil behind her. Neil wasn't entirely sure Eames realized it was him right away.

Neil smirked at him, and the expression seemed to solidify who he was to Eames. The man never faltered even for a second though, digging in his coat and handing an envelope to Wendy. "You didn't really look like the tennis bracelet type," he said, "so I thought I'd just give you a little cash to buy tickets to whatever you'd like—a concert or a show or even just to fly somewhere.

Wendy looked back at Neil and mouthed _marry him_ before going to unlock the door. Neil tugged at the collar of his shirt a little uncomfortably.

"You look nice," Eames said to him. "I worried you'd show up in a tartan patterned monstrosity, but this looks quite lovely on you."

"I don't feel like you have room to talk about ugly clothes," Neil replied flatly. Eames smiled warmly at him, and Neil felt that weird squeezing in his chest again. "So today is the day?" he said instead of taking the time to question it.

Eames nodded. "If you're up for it, I plan to take you back to the hotel, introduce you to the rest of the team for a test run, and then we go after the mark this evening. We've paid off his housekeeper to allow us into his flat."

Neil nodded and looked towards Wendy who immediately started waving him off. "Get lost, ass. Go make us some money!"

He grinned at her and looked back at Eames. "Lead the way then."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

When Neil entered the hotel room, he discovered the same group of people from the other day waiting inside. He sort of felt like he did on his first day of school, standing there and being given once-overs by strangers, not knowing if their reactions would be positive or negative. Neil had never much cared about people's opinions of him, but he knew that these particular ones were vital, so he tried to stand up straight and to present a calm and mature demeanor.

"Mates, this is our new pointman, Arthur," Eames said, indicating Neil. "He's the one who got us the information earlier in the week, so you can already tell he's quite impressive."

"He's so young," the African-American man said, raising his eyebrows before holding out a hand. "Hi, I'm Wyatt. I'm the extractor on this job." Neil shook the man's hand, marveling at how large it was and how large he was. He wasn't fat by any means but built similarly to Eames and intimidating in stature. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit and had an earring pierced in one ear that had a feather dangling from it. It was odd, but Neil had seen weirder fashion statements on a Monday from Eric.

The next to introduce herself was Mrs. Red Hair from the door, and she seemed to remember Neil from that day. "I'm Sophie," she said, taking his hand in hers and scrutinizing him carefully. "I'm the architect." Neil was pretty sure she was from some place in Europe like Eames was, though her accent was a bit harder on the R's. She was small and waifish, dressed in a gray top and a charcoal-colored pencil skirt, and even with her heels on she didn't come up to Neil's eye-level.

Next was the chemist who shook Neil's hand hardily, offering a smile. "Yusuf," he said, quickly. "Chemist." This Yusuf fellow quickly returned to the PASIV device on the table, studying the chemicals he'd placed inside. Neil was pretty sure he liked him best because the man hadn't bothered to make a spectacle out of this meeting. Neil certainly didn't mind the attention, but he wanted them to think of him as an expert like the rest of them.

Neil removed his coat and then his blazer, tossing them over the side of a chair and listened while Wyatt explained the situation to the entire team and what the test run was going to entail. Eames had already given Neil the skinny on the way over, so he didn't feel the need to listen too terribly intently, but he still attempted to appear focused at least. That was hard though because ever since he'd taken off his coat and blazer, he felt like Eames was watching him intently. It made Neil want to slowly shed of all of his clothes, just to watch Eames sweat and squirm. It was always a thrill for Neil to make anyone hunger for him, but with Eames it was particularly delightful. He didn't know whether it was because of the challenge of working with the new clothes or if it was just because he found himself a bit hungry for Eames as well. It was probably a little bit of both.

The extraction seemed fairly simple. The group was only going down one layer (and Neil didn't realize until then that they could go deeper than that, but of course he didn't let anyone know that), and Eames was to distract George while Wyatt searched for his secrets in a vault Sophie had installed on the dream level. Neil's information had changed what they were looking for, but the mission was still basically the same. Eames had also followed around this Cameron person—who was apparently George's best friend—and would be forging as him instead. After all, Cameron was a more likely candidate for George to put his trust in if he knew about his lifestyle on the down-low.

Neil's job was pretty simple at this point since he'd already done the work he needed and the previous pointman had done the rest before, so he wasn't terribly concerned. He decided to look across the room at Eames instead, raising his eyebrows a little as if to ask _do you see something you like?_

Eames, God love him, was still young enough to see a look like that and _blush_. Neil would have been embarrassed for him if it was anyone else, but a tint of pink looked good on Eames's cheeks.

"So," Wyatt continued, "the housekeeper is leaving the door unlocked for us this evening. We'll be running the job at eleven forty-five since that's a half hour after George usually falls asleep. Let's go under for a test run and see how the maze looks."

Neil got up then and while the rest of the team was getting themselves situated around the PASIV, Eames approached Neil and pressed a pistol into his hand. Neil recognized it as the same one from the other day that Eames had taken out when he claimed he could shoot him. "For later," Eames said softly.

"You got anything else for me for later?" Neil whispered back, smirking, just to see Eames's face redden again.

"Don't be a cocktease," Eames grinned. "We're at work."

Neil thought about smacking Eames on the ass for giggles, but he decided it was probably best not to do that in front of the others.

Eames had, and hopefully Neil would also have, a reputation to keep.

They arrived about ten minutes early at George Winchester Jr.'s penthouse, taking separate cars so as to look less suspicious. Neil and Eames were in a taxi that stopped at the bar down the street, and as soon as the taxi pulled off they started walking towards the place. As they stepped inside the unlocked door, Neil wanted very much to be impressed, possibly even to think about pilfering a few things, but he couldn't focus on any of that. At the moment, all he could think about was George's cock sitting heavily in his mouth, and that made him feel ill.

"Not bad," Eames said, and Neil was grateful to remember Eames was there. "A bit too modern for my tastes, but that's his fiancée's doing, I'm sure."

Neil wondered why Eames was bothering to talk about the man's house, but he realized quickly that Eames had noticed Neil's sudden discomfort, as subtle as it was, and was talking to keep the rest of the team from realizing it. Eames had said he was good at reading people, and clearly that wasn't a lie.

George's bedroom was at the back of the building, near the windows with the best view of the city. The group of them slipped inside undetected from George's snoozing form.

Neil stood there for a moment or two, staring at the way the alarm clock's red digital numbers cast light over the man's face, and for some reason he thought of Coach. He turned away as Yusuf injected the man with a sedative to make sure he stayed asleep and helped set up chairs and such for the team to gather around him in.

"Good luck," Neil said, once everyone was attached to the machine, and depressed the plunger. A hissing sound emanated from the PASIV, and then Neil was the only one awake in the room, armed with a portable cassette player for the kick music and Eames's pistol.

At that point, there was really nothing to do but wait, so that was what Neil did, wandering the room, looking at the books on George's bookshelf, admiring the view out the window.

He wasn't comfortable here. He didn't like being alone in this room with this man, even if the man literally presented no threat to him. He didn't like the suffocation of the silence, listening only to the breathing of the other people in the room. He didn't like how heavy and cold the gun in his coat was.

The minutes ticked by unbearably slowly, and Neil found himself sitting on the trunk at the foot of George's bed, settling closest to Eames. He checked his watch and checked the PASIV and then stared at the ceiling before doing it all it again. It was taking forever and the longer Neil sat there in the dark silence, the more impatient and uncomfortable he became. He thought about Coach's living room back in Hutchinson, when he and Brian had stepped inside together and Neil had felt so tall and so small at the exact same time. Then, he thought about running his fingers through Brian's soft blonde hair as he cried, and then he thought of Eric's letter.

He hoped Eric had gotten through to Brian.

When it got about time, Neil settled the headphones onto Sophie's ears and hit play, then stepped back. They had about three more minutes, at least on the surface, and then the timer would run out. Neil was glad to know that they'd be out of there soon.

That was when he heard the front door open and close.

Neil turned, holding his breath as he heard someone moving down the hall, and he tried to think of something to do. Who had a key to this place? They'd locked the door on their way in, and they'd been assured that the man's fiancée was in Paris for the week—

Cameron.

It could only be Cameron, Neil thought, and it was. Neil found himself staring down the barrel of a gun at the man, a handsome guy with sharp features but as far from Neil's type as they came. "Oh, good, you're still here," Cameron said, sneering.

Neil just stared back, hand pressed over the gun in his pocket, but too scared to really move. Cameron knew they were going to be there. Cameron knew and he was probably going to kill all of them because going into George's head meant they were going to find proof that Cameron poisoned George's father so that he could run the company with George as his puppet. Cameron had blackmail on George, so George could do nothing but comply.

It was all so clear to Neil in that instant that he was almost dizzy with it.

He glanced at the timer.

A minute and a half.

If he could hold Cameron off for a minute and a half, then the job might not be a bust.

He pulled out Eames's pistol and pointed it back at him. "So… you found out about it?... or did you always know?" Neil asked, stalling for time.

Cameron rolled his eyes. "I suppose it should have been obvious, but no. A little bird dropped by and told me what you were planning, so I came by to make sure to stop it," he cocked the gun, "one way or another."

"A little bird?" Neil said softly, realizing that he didn't quite know how to cock the gun Eames had given him and too worried he'd get it wrong to try.

"Yes," Cameron said lightly. "A young man. He apparently got slighted from his own job and decided to get his payment elsewhere. I'm assuming you're the one he was replaced with."

Neil stayed silent, cursing the previous pointman in his mind. He checked the timer out of the corner of his eye again.

Twenty seconds.

"I got the job done," Neil replied, and his hand didn't shake at all when he went to cock the gun the same way Cameron had done his own. He hoped it worked.

"If you did your job so well, then why are we in a stand-off?" Cameron asked, and then added, "and if you're wondering why I haven't shot you yet, you should know that I'm willing to negotiate first. I don't like getting my hands dirty unless I have to… You're not like that though, are you, Mr. Pointman? See, the man who sold you out may not have known how you got your information, but I do."

Neil felt a muscle in his jaw jump, his stomach twisting a little.

"You are impressive," Cameron said, "to go so far as to suck dick to get your information. I'll admit, that shows some dedication. Oh, and look the rest of the party is here."

Neil turned his head to see the rest of the team had awoken, and he wondered how much of that they'd heard. He turned his eyes back on Cameron.

"Now, I'm willing to make a deal here. You can either get up and get out of here and not tell anyone what you've found out lest I send out the finest mercenaries money can buy to slaughter you and your loved ones, or I can kill you now and save you the trouble of running," Cameron said.

The team stayed silent momentarily, and Neil felt like they were waiting for him to do something… either that or they were just so disgusted with him in that moment that they couldn't speak. Perhaps the jackass pointman who sold them out would have shot and asked questions later.

Then, Neil said, "You do realize that you're basically telling us we have the winning hand here. You don't intend to let us leave at all because as soon as we scatter there's no way you'll find us. The only reason you're even making the offer is because you're afraid we'll kill you first."

Neil lowered his own gun just a fraction. "What makes you think we're going to take that shit from you? Do you realize that you've already lost? Even if George's brain didn't give us the answer we needed the fact that you're even fucking standing here does."

Cameron clenched his jaw and put his finger on the trigger.

"The real reason why you haven't shot us yet is because you're trying to figure out a way to keep it off you. You were pissed off when you found out what was happening and so you came over here without thinking," Neil said, "and now you're in fucking trouble because if you shoot us, you've not only got George's dad's but _our_ bodies on your name. You know they'll trace the bullets back to your gun. You know that they'll look at you for the older George's murder. You know this, and that's why you're fucking waiting. You're bluffing because you have a shitty hand because you can't control your goddamned temper."

Cameron shouted and fired, but the bullet just grazed Neil's cheekbone. Still it made his heart hammer so fast he thought it might break out of his ribcage and on instinct he fired back, the bullet landing somewhere in Cameron's nether regions.

"Shit! Fuck!" Cameron cried out, hands falling over his fly as blood darkened his trousers. Neil wondered if he'd shot him in the dick or balls but instead smacked the gun hard against the side of the man's head, sending him to the floor.

He stepped back and looked towards the team and said, "let's get a fucking move on."

He didn't have to tell them twice. They were already packing up the PASIV and wiping down the areas in the room they'd disturbed. Neil looked down at the unconscious Cameron and took his gun, sliding it into his own pocket before wiping off the one he had and settling it where the other gun had been. People would assume he shot himself, or at least they wouldn't be able to trace it if Eames's gun was ever confiscated.

He felt a hand pushing on his back then, and he just ran as he was directed. The halls and the rooms and then the city lights blurred by as they scattered, Neil being tightly held by the arm the entire time. He ran so hard that it felt like his lungs were on fire, and then he was crammed into a waiting car four blocks away.

A hired driver, Neil managed to process, and then he was leaning back against the leather seat, chest heaving, and pieces of hair falling into his face as blood dripped off of his chin and onto the collar of his dark coat.

He turned towards towards Eames and saw the man in a similar state, flushed from the cold and shaking from the adrenaline.

"You…" Eames panted, "…you fucking… that was the most ridiculous…"

Neil wiped at the blood dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand. He couldn't even feel the sting of the wound, heart still racing from the insanity of it all. "I'll admit… s'not my finest hour…" he struggled to say as he tried to catch his breath, "but… not bad for a… first try…"

Eames stared at him, shaking his head, and then his expression broke into a smile and he was laughing. "Good God… that was bloody genius… You've got one hell of a poker face, that's for fucking sure."

Neil smiled too, letting his head thump against the seat. "Running seems kind of obvious, doesn't it?"

"Eh, no one saw," Eames chuckled, and then they both laughed, leaning close to each other, dizzy and winded from the insanity of it all.

"You think the others will be all right?" Neil asked when their laughter had finally calmed down.

"They'll be fine. We'll reconvene with them in a month or so if we need to, once the fire dies down."

"And what do we do until then?"

"Eh…" Eames shrugged, thumbing at Neil's cheekbone to wipe away some of the blood. "I'll probably go lie low in my flat in Mombasa for a bit."

Neil's smile faded a little, "…and what about me?"

"You… you will go back to being Neil for a bit and keep the PASIV device hidden. No one would expect you to have it, and no one is likely to recognize you in your civilian clothes…" Eames trailed off when he saw Neil's expression.

"So… you're just going to go away then?" Neil asked. "That's it? I _might_ see you in a month?"

Eames's expression softened a little, and he said, "I'll need a place to stay for the night at least."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

The rest of the drive back to Neil's apartment was silent. The PASIV sat between him and Eames as a sort of barrier, one that Neil felt like he couldn't cross it at that time. The air between them was too thick with expectation of what would occur once they were safe behind closed doors, of what would happen after the sun came up.

The car pulled to a stop and Eames got out first. Neil followed suit and couldn't help but be a little startled by the way the car zoomed off into the night so quickly. He looked back at Eames and hesitated, then led the way up to the door.

"So," he said as he unlocked and got them into the lobby, "what about all of your stuff back at the hotel?"

"It's in Wyatt's car. He'll ship it to my home in Mombasa since he'll be staying here a little bit longer than the rest of us."

"Why?"

"Simple," Eames replied, heading up the stairs. "He has to give the information to our employer."

"Oh… so when do we get paid?" Neil asked, following him up the steps.

"The money should show up in the bank account I set up for you in about a week, I suppose," Eames said. "I've got all the paperwork you'll need on that to be mailed here in three days so keep your eye out for it, yeah?"

Neil stayed silent the rest of the trip up the steps, unlocking his and Wendy's door and letting the man inside when they arrived. They moved quietly because Wendy was asleep, slipping into Neil's room and shutting the door.

Neil flicked on a light and took the PASIV from Eames, cramming it into a back corner of his closet and tossing some dirty clothes over it. He doubted anyone would come looking for it in this place, but if they did, he wasn't going to leave it sitting out in the open. He turned around as he heard the mattress squeak and found Eames to be sitting on a corner of it, coat in his lap, looking a bit… concerned.

Neil opened his mouth to ask what the problem was, but Eames answered him before he had to. "What Cameron said back there… about how you got the information that you did… was that the truth?"

Neil's shoulders slumped a little, and he stalled by removing his own coat and hanging it up, then sliding out of his blazer. "If it was," he mumbled, "would it cause you to leave?"

Eames shook his head, and Neil tried not to look at him as he slid his tie off and tossed it over the top of his dresser where he'd set the blazer. "I just want to know why you would…" Eames tried to say, but he was clearly struggling for words.

"Look, it's not like I wanted to, all right?" Neil said, focusing on the buttons of his waistcoat. "He just… When I showed up he mistook me for a prostitute, so I went with it. It's not like I haven't tasted dick before."

_Open wide and suck it, slut._

Neil squeezed his eyes shut and shook the words out of his skull with a jerk of his head. When Eames's expression turned questionable, Neil just blamed it on feeling like he had to sneeze. "So," Neil continued, as he undid the buttons on his shirt, "you won't leave, but you're going to think less of me, right?"

"I don't think less of you," Eames replied softly. "The dreamshare way of obtaining information is less than savory. I mean, that's why what we do is a crime… I know you did what you thought you had to. I just feel bad for putting you in that position."

"You didn't put me in that position," Neil scoffed, tossing the shirt carelessly on top of the rest of the clothes. "I went there on my own. Don't act like you control the things I do, Eames."

Eames stood and approached Neil. "I don't control the things you do. I never suggested that. I was the one who put you to the challenge though, even though I hadn't meant to, and that was how you ended up there. If I hadn't existed in your life, you wouldn't have been in that spot on that day."

Neil looked away, jaw set, and said, "Yeah, I'd just be sucking less expensive dick."

Eames grabbed Neil by the arms with enough force that it made Neil look back at him. He felt like he'd almost coughed up his stomach from the sudden fear that jolted through him, and he had to swallow it back down to its proper place. He stared into Eames's eyes, both of them silent for a long time.

Then, Eames let him go and paced across the floor, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. "I just don't understand you sometimes, you know? Am I really the only person who's ever come through for you? You honestly think you'd continue to be a prostitute if it weren't for me?"

"It makes more money than the sub shop."

_SLUT._

Neil shook his head again, but before Eames could ask he said, "What does it matter to you? I mean… this really seems to _bother_ you, don't you think? You knew what I was from the beginning, and you know what I'm like if you're as observant as you say you are. I'm not ashamed of how I can use sex to my advantage. I don't care if I have to suck a dick or put my fingers in someone's ass or whatever, you know? It's just part of the job, and it's something I'm good at, and… people misunderstand… I guess. It's a dirty job but someone's got to do it, and who better than a guy like me who loves fucking the old, ugly guys no one else gives a shit about?"

Eames shook his head. He was smiling but it was surprisingly bitter. "Oh, darling…" he said softly. "You're so full of shit your eyes should be brown."

Neil was taken aback by the statement, and he clenched his fists and said, "I don't have to explain myself to you. I don't expect you to understand—"

"—but I do understand," Eames interrupted, "because I _am_ as observant as I say I am. The only reason you whore yourself out is because someone made you feel like it's all you can do, and even though I know that's not true and I know somewhere inside you know it isn't either, you're too afraid to step away from that state of mind because you're not sure what's waiting for you on the other side. Someone hurt you, maybe more than one person. I don't know why and I don't know how, but I know that you were hurt."

"You don't know my life—" Neil started to shout but Eames approached him again and pulled him close, and suddenly all the air seemed to rush out of Neil's body.

"You know," Eames said softly, "you are allowed to be loved without being possessed."

It was at that point that Neil started to shake, and no matter how he tried to stop it, he couldn't. Eames held onto him like they would go spiraling off into the abyss, and Neil was pretty sure he was saying something but couldn't hear it over the ringing in his ears.

When he came back to his senses he was lying on the bed, cocooned in Eames's arms, and the man was gently shushing him and telling him everything was all right. Neil stopped trembling and just laid there silently for a moment before Eames said, "Are you back with us?"

Neil couldn't think of a smartass response, so he just nodded his head and felt Eames brush a tear off of the side of his face.

"You don't have to tell me anything," Eames said, carding a hand through Neil's hair, "but you should talk to someone about whatever it is that's torturing you like this. I hate to see you this way."

Neil breathed in and out, counting them: one, two, three, four. He sat up slowly and looked down at Eames, at his soft lips and eyes that seemed to see everything from the past, present, and future all at once.

"What will it change?" Neil asked.

Eames shrugged, rolling onto his back. "I honestly don't know. It might not change anything, but it seems worth it enough to try, don't you think?"

Neil wasn't sure if it was or not. He really didn't feel that sure about anything anymore at this point.

He did know two things though—Eames was here tonight, and Eames wouldn't be here tomorrow, so he figured he should make the best of the situation.

Besides, he was tired of talking about himself.

He leaned over Eames and pressed a tentative kiss to the man's lips. Eames seemed to take a moment to question if this was a good idea, but then Neil was sliding his tongue along his bottom lip and Eames was opening up for him, inhaling slowly through his nose as he slotted his mouth with Neil's. Neil wondered if he'd ever get tired of the way Eames kissed him, or if he'd ever understand why he felt so new and inexperienced when it happened.

Neil pressed himself against Eames, letting their legs interlock, and then he ventured forth a little to grind against Eames's thigh. It reminded him of the other night in the living room that Wendy had interrupted before it could really go anywhere.

" _You like him."_

Neil broke the kiss and was going to say something, but then Eames started pressing kisses along the line of his jaw and down his neck causing him to forget. Eames paused at the collarbone and Neil sat back, removing his undershirt and tossing it on the floor, and then he dove back down for another kiss as he started working off his own belt.

Eames rolled Neil over until he was the one on his back and smiled fondly at the dazed, slightly startled expression he'd gotten in return. He then loosed the buttons on his own shirt and let it fall to the floor, and Neil almost made an obscene sound because of it.

He didn't know why he hadn't expected it, but Eames had at least a dozen tattoos. He couldn't help but grin and long to taste all of them until he'd memorized where they were. He couldn't help but appreciate the artistry, considering many of the ugly, god awful tattoos he'd seen on various johns in the past.

It only took a few more minutes before both of them were naked and wrapped around each other, kissing and touching. Neil had gotten so practiced in his hustling that he couldn't help but ask, "What do you want me to do?"

Eames pressed a lingering kiss at the top of Neil's cheekbone. "Well, I do owe you a blow job," he offered, laughing a bit breathlessly against Neil's skin, "but what would you like?"

Momentarily Neil was caught off guard because he was hardly ever asked (and when he was it was usually just a formality). He replied with the answer he'd always supplied—a lazy grin and a, "Whatever."

Eames sat back and looked down at Neil, and Neil stared up at him through the mussed, greasy strands of hair that had long fallen out of their slicked back state. Neil could tell Eames was thinking about what he might like to do, and Neil wasn't so hard that he didn't care to wait, so he laid there, breathing softly, stroking himself occasionally.

"Do you have anything? Lubricant? Condoms?"

Neil scrunched up his face as he tried to remember. He'd never really been one to buy protection because he'd never really cared, but he was pretty sure Wendy had bought him a package at some point. He didn't know where it was though.

He sighed, getting up and digging through his dresser drawers for a few minutes and finally managed to find it, tossing the condoms onto the bed. He paused for a moment, then said, "Be right back," and left the bedroom, retrieving a bottle of lotion from the bathroom. He was glad he didn't wake Wendy in the process because she would probably never let him live this down.

He returned to the bedroom and tossed the bottle of lotion to Eames before spreading himself out on the bed again. "So, what's happening here?" he asked, folding his hands behind his head.

Eames swallowed, and Neil couldn't help but revel in the way his pupils had dilated and the way his cheeks had reddened. "I'd… I'd like to fuck you," Eames said, "if that's all right."

Neil rolled his eyes and then turned so that he was on his stomach. "Jeez, it's not like I've never been fucked before. Are you British people always so goddamned polite?"

Eames grabbed him gently by the arm and rolled him back onto his back, staring into his eyes. "It's not about politeness," Eames said, and Neil didn't ask him what it was about. "I'd like it if you stayed like this. I'd like to see you…" Eames slid his hand down Neil's chest, his touch feather-light.

No one had ever asked that of Neil before, but he nodded and let his legs fall open.

Eames leaned over and kissed Neil again and then slicked his fingers with a generous amount of lotion. He started with just one, and Neil was a little surprised by how tight he'd gotten in the month or so he'd gone without. It made his mouth go dry when he remembered the last time someone had been inside, but he calmed the panicked thump-thumping of his heart by silently reminding himself that this was not that time. He closed his eyes as Eames started to work him open, taking Neil's cock into his plush mouth to help keep him pliant and relaxed. Eames appeared to be as good at sucking dick as he was at kissing, and Neil thought that he'd be happy to come just from this at some point, but not tonight.

Eames took his time though, which was weird in and of itself, but with his previous bed partners in the past Neil had usually been on a sort of time limit. He let Eames do as he wanted, finding that he didn't really have to fake his own enjoyment of the situation like he did with some. It was clear from the beginning that Eames wasn't looking just to satisfy his own desires. He was searching for specific ways to make Neil whimper and moan, doing them again and looking pleased when he succeeded in finding one.

"Does it feel good?" he asked, voice deeper and sounding like it had been wrapped around a cigarette just moments before. Neil wanted to lick the smoke from Eames's taste buds.

"Yeah, feels nice," Neil said, and he meant it. "Feels real good."

Eames smiled boyishly and pecked him on the lips before removing his fingers. He rolled on a condom and spread the lubricant over it leisurely, and then he lined up with Neil's entrance. "If you want me to stop at any time," he said, "tell me, all right?"

Neil swallowed the knot that formed in his throat at that and nodded. "Okay," he said. "Just… yeah. Okay."

Eames pushed in slowly, only letting the head of his cock push past the ring of muscle at first. He stroked Neil's shaking thighs gently until he was relaxed enough to take more. It was only once Eames had slid in to the hilt that Neil said, "You don't have to treat me like some delicate flower."

"Maybe I like treating you like a delicate flower," Eames teased and thrust his hips a little, letting the head of his cock brush against Neil's prostate and causing Neil to gasp a little. "I think things always turn out better if they start out slow," Eames explained as he pulled back and pushed in again, and Neil's eyes rolled back in his head as he thumped the back of his skull against the mattress. "I imagine it's not quite what you're used to, but I don't think I'm quite your typical fodder either, now am I?"

"Why are you talking instead of fucking me?" Neil asked, letting out a breathless chuckle when Eames lightly smacked him on the thigh.

"Patience is a virtue, darling."

"So is chastity," Neil replied, and Eames laughed before rocking his hips forward into him again.

Neil got a bit lost after that, forgetting space and time as Eames continued to fuck him, gradually picking up his rhythm but never forgetting to touch and to kiss him at a moment that seemed opportune. Neil wasn't sure he'd ever been fucked quite like this before, but at this point he didn't really have the mental capacity to dwell on it much. Eames stroked him in rhythm with his thrusts, and Neil let his legs wrap around the man's waist, let the man practically bend him in half in order to kiss him. It just felt so good to be touched and kissed and fucked again after so much time. He hadn't gone long without sex since he was fifteen, and it felt fantastic not just because it was happening again but because it felt like it should.

When Eames was fucking him, Neil didn't think about Brighton Beach or Coach or Brian.

Every single one of his senses was too preoccupied with Eames. The feel of him under Neil's fingers and sliding in and out of Neil's body, the taste of him on Neil's tongue, the smell of his sweat and cologne mingling together, the sound of his moans and grunts and panting breaths, and the sight of that gorgeous face caught up in the bliss of the moment that still had eyes for Neil despite everything.

Neil wanted it to last forever.

He came when Eames's hips stuttered out of rhythm and he draped himself over Neil, groaning until he was spent, and Neil could feel come pooling on his stomach. He felt rather than saw Eames's hand release Neil's cock, sliding through the mess, and he watched through half-lidded eyes as the man pulled out and leaned over to kiss Neil again.

"All right?" Eames asked, and it took a couple of seconds for Neil to even process what that meant.

"Yeah…" he drawled sleepily.

Eames wiped up the mess with a sock he found on the floor, tossed the used condom in the bin, and crawled back into bed. Normally Neil thought it was stupid when his sexual partners spooned with him afterwards, finding it a bit ridiculously sentimental, but with Eames it was okay.

The last thing Neil remembered before falling asleep was the sound of Eames turning off the light and the feel of him pressing a kiss to the back of Neil's neck.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

When Neil woke up that morning, Eames was already gone. He sat up in bed and stared at the empty spot on the other side, momentarily entertaining the idea that he'd dreamed it all—but there was a cut on his cheekbone and a soreness in his ass that led him to know otherwise. He stretched his arms over his head, yawned, and crawled out from under the covers, seeking out a pair of not-too-dirty boxers to slide into.

Wendy was already awake, curled up on the couch with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, and she smiled at him when he appeared. "Hey, good morning."

Neil offered a smile back, wondering why he felt so ridiculously disappointed that Eames had left without saying goodbye. Maybe it was just because Neil wasn't used to being the one left asleep in bed, but something told him that it wasn't quite the reason.

"How'd the job go?" Wendy asked.

"We managed it," Neil shrugged, digging in the fridge until he found a couple of eggs, wandering over to the stove and turning on the eye. "We hit a little snag at one point, but nobody died—except maybe that guy I shot in the dick."

Wendy snorted into her bowl. "Are you serious?"

Neil only offered her a shit-eating grin as a response and cracked his eggs into a pan. He always liked it when he had them sunny side up, but he never quite figured out how to do it, so he scrambled them instead. He wondered if Eames knew how to cook eggs.

He'd been wondering a lot of little useless thoughts about Eames lately, and he knew it wasn't just because they'd had sex because he'd been doing it before that… It was really weird and frankly a little uncomfortable to think about, but he couldn't exactly stop it from happening. He'd just have to figure out what to do with them later, he supposed.

"So," Wendy said as Neil pushed the eggs onto a paper plate, "I saw Mr. Eames leave this morning. Where's he going?"

"Mombasa, I guess," Neil mumbled. He didn't even know where that was or if it was a real country (he'd been woefully inattentive in geography). "Did he say anything?"

"He said he'd contact you as soon as he could," Wendy shrugged. "I'm assuming you guys fucked last night then?"

"Yeah, what of it?" Neil said, not meeting her eyes, instead choosing to focus on his breakfast. He figured if he didn't deny it and also didn't make a big deal of it, she wouldn't go flying off the handle with her _you like him_ nonsense.

"You guys were safe, right?"

Neil melodramatically rolled his eyes because he wanted to be absolutely positive she saw his reaction. "Yeah, we were. God."

"Don't act like that. You and I both know for a fact that you've tend to forget important things like that. Of course, by forget you know I mean that you choose not to do them because you're a dumbass."

Neil stopped himself before he could say something ludicrous like _Eames is different_. Yes, Eames was, but that didn't mean he was different in the way that Wendy would think he was. He instead shrugged and said, "Whatever," around a mouthful of eggs.

Wendy fell silent for a moment or two after that, watching Neil curiously. Then, softly, she said, "Do you think he'll come back?"

"He has to," Neil replied. "I've got his PASIV device."

* * *

Four days passed and things pretty much returned to normal. Neil went back to the sub shop and went back to being shoddily dressed, he went back to sleeping in Wendy's bed when he wanted a warm body nearby, and he didn't see or hear from Eames. The only thing that helped him remember that any of that insanity had even happened was the PASIV device still sitting in the corner of his closet.

Wendy had been fascinated to see the inside of it when he told her about it, but she was apprehensive about trying it. He figured it was probably best to just leave it as it was anyway because he figured Eames would check the levels of somnacin when he returned. If he returned.

Neil chose not to think like that too much because it just bummed him out.

That afternoon, when he got off from work, he found a large envelope with his name on it in the mailbox. It had probably been sitting there for at least a day, but he hadn't bothered to check for it. He took it upstairs with the rest of the mail, leaving the miscellaneous bills and such on the coffee table, and ripped it open.

Inside he discovered an identification card, a birth certificate, a bank card and account records, a passport, and a list of medical records among other things all for Arthur Bennett. There were already stamps on the passport even though Neil had never been to those places, and shockingly enough Eames had even put together a legitimate looking photograph of him. He wasn't sure how he managed it, but he had.

Neil stashed all of the items away in his bag and just sat there for a moment, letting the reality of the situation wash over him.

Arthur wasn't just a name he used off-chance now. Eames had made Arthur real, and now Neil knew that there was a high possibility of more work in mind crime in the future. Eames was coming through for him and things were going to change.

He'd need to really refine his skills if that were the case.

Neil spent the rest of the afternoon locked in his room and hooked up to the PASIV device, wading through his mess of a subconscious.

* * *

By the end of the week, Neil's head was spinning with possibility. He didn't know when his next jobs would come up or what they would be, but Wendy and he would spend their evenings coming up with fake ones, usually involving being captured or sold out and having to make a daring escape. He would spend any time he wasn't working or hanging out with her to actually attempt these weird fantasy heists whilst hooked up to the PASIV, teaching his mind to defend itself. In his dreams he was always Arthur rather than Neil, and his projections didn't seem intent on harming him because of it. Occasionally he'd still hear a whimpering and scratching on walls, and he almost always saw Coach amongst the crowds, and sometimes it would rain like water from a showerhead, but it was getting easier to navigate, and he was getting killed less and less often.

He took the bank card to the ATM a couple of days after the week had ended, figuring it was better to be safe than sorry. Wendy went along, curious to see how much he'd made, joking about how they were going to go out and celebrate if it was a lot. Honestly, Neil was pretty sure they were too afraid to label how much _a lot_ was because they might get their hopes up too high. He'd only been on the job for a couple of days after all.

He slid the card in and went through the motions of checking his balance. It was all very dull, he thought, unable to help the kneejerk reaction of dislike when at the ATM because of the constant disappointment it usually provided (which was why he usually kept his money in his drawer).

The machine beeped, and Neil was pretty sure his eyes nearly fell out of his skull. "Wendy?" he called over. She was standing off to the side, lighting up a cigarette. "Wendy, come here."

"What?" she asked, already appearing to bounce with excitement. "How much is it? Like 5,000?"

"Higher," Neil said, staring at her, deadly serious.

"How much higher?" she breathed.

Neil sniffed casually and looked away and mumbled, "Ten."

"Ten… Ten- _thousand_?" she cried out, and he clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Yeah, and we're going to get robbed of all of it if you don't shut your trap," he hissed, but he couldn't stop the smile on his face. "Jesus fucking Christ…"

Wendy pressed her forehead to Neil's, bouncing on her toes a little. "Neil McCormick, I do believe I love you."

"Wendy Peterson, I do believe you're after my money," he teased and kissed her lightly. "We are going to have fun tonight."

They did, splurging because they could. He bought Wendy Vivienne Westwood and a tattoo, shared with her a fine bottle of wine, and hunted down a bigger, nicer apartment out of the dangerous part of town. It had lots of cool and trendy furniture already inside, a full bathroom, two large bedrooms, and a full kitchen, not to mention a fantastic view of the city. Wendy and he danced in the living room to the Smiths, drunk and gleeful, and fell asleep on each other on the couch during a horror movie marathon.

When he woke up the next morning, Wendy had left, probably to go and hire movers to get the rest of their shit from the old place to the new one, and Neil got up and wandered across the floor to the window.

He thought about the call he'd made to Eric and his promise to return to Kansas. It made him feel sick to think about it, but for once this was a promise he knew he couldn't throw out. He wondered if Wendy would come with him, if he wanted her to… He wondered if he could gather up his mother and Eric and Brian and take them as far from Hutchinson as he could. Hell, he wondered if Brian would even speak to him again. If he wouldn't speak to Eric then what chance did Neil have?

He shook his head, dismissing the thoughts for the moment, and went back to the couch, finishing off the bottle of wine to help rid him of his hangover.

He missed Eames.

* * *

Neil didn't make any ceremony of going back to Hutchinson. He explained to Wendy that he wanted to surprise his mom, and they'd talked about asking her to move in with them in New York. He hadn't asked her about Eric, but he was thinking that, should this Brian thing not work out, he should bring him along too. At least then he wouldn't have any excuse at all to go back to that place.

Neil went by himself, hopping onto a plane and sleeping for most of the flight. He hadn't been dreaming of Brighton Beach or that summer as a child, so that was good… but really it didn't seem like he'd been dreaming at all.

He wished Eames was around so that he would know if that was okay or not, but then he silently cursed himself for thinking of the man again. He seemed to go traipsing through Neil's imagination at any opportunity with his stupid, handsome face. Sure, it was nice to see Eames rather than the other things that plagued his unoccupied mind, but it didn't make things easier. He wasn't sure why Eames had had such a profound effect on him—or rather, he had an idea as to why but refused to admit to it. Neil was thinking there was a distinct possibility that Eames had braved the black hole that lived inside Neil's chest where his heart was supposed to be, and he'd come out of it alive and unscathed. Perhaps he'd even stuffed up the hole somehow.

Neil grimaced, finding that to be the dumbest thing he'd imagined so far. He tried once again not to think about Eames…

…but then he was thinking about Brian.

He hadn't heard a peep from Eric since the letter and the phone call, and while Neil could hope that meant things had worked themselves out, he doubted it would be that simple. He just hoped nothing so devastating had befallen Brian that Eric could not get up the physical strength to even call Neil to scream at him. Neil knew he would because Neil was there to blame, even if it wasn't his fault that Brian was so fucked up… He may have been there for the start of it, but he was a little boy then too and was just doing what he thought he was supposed to do.

He'd still felt so sorry that night, though… but he'd never said it to Brian. He knew it wouldn't have made any difference either way, but he still sort of wished he had now. Maybe it would have been enough. Maybe he would have been able to understand Neil's side of things. He didn't have the heart to feel real emotion most of the time, but maybe Brian would have understood what he would have felt if he could have.

The plane landed, and Neil got up from his seat, stiff and sore from sitting so long. He had to wait a while for his bag (he'd only packed one suitcase because he certainly didn't plan on staying long), but once he had it he made his way out to the street. He leaned against the wall near a payphone, lighting up a cigarette and smoking it before sliding in some quarters and dialing Eric's home number.

Eric was the one to answer this time. He still sounded downtrodden, though not as much as he had during the last phone call. "Hello?"

"Hey," Neil said, flicking his cigarette butt into the street. "I'm at the airport. Can you come pick me up?"

"What?... You're… at our airport?"

"Uh, yeah, that's why I need you to come pick me up. I told you I'd come back, didn't I?"

"Y—yeah, but, I… I didn't think you'd actually…"

"Come get me, and then we'll talk."

"Uh… okay, um… yeah, I'll be there in a little while."

Neil hung up and went back inside, hunting down the food court and buying a small bag of chips to munch on while he waited.

It didn't matter how long Neil was gone from Hutchinson, Kansas. Whenever he stepped back into its air, he felt suddenly familiar with everything. They could have torn down all of the buildings and replaced them with new ones, but the dry air always felt the same. The buildings meant nothing when compared with the flat land that stretched out underneath it for miles and miles and miles. If a tornado had blown through and killed all of the people and ripped all of the houses from their foundations, that flat land would still be there, the long grass blowing in the occasional gust of wind.

He remembered feeling so smothered by the place when he'd lived here, but found it to be welcomingly open in comparison to the clutter of New York City. He still preferred New York any day, but there was just something about Hutchinson, Kansas—something he couldn't quite put his finger on—that he missed when he wasn't there.

It was a lot like how he felt about Eames actually… Eames was everything Neil didn't really want in a man, but he felt shockingly happy when he was with him… and when he was gone, he _missed_ him.

He wondered if he should tell his mother about Eames. That was an insane thought, he supposed, considering he'd never told his mother about any of the men he'd been with… but he had a feeling she would really like Eames, that she would think he was cool and handsome. She would probably tease Neil that she would steal him for herself if he decided not to keep him.

The thought made him smile, despite himself. He really was looking forward to seeing his mother. The last time he'd visited he wasn't quite in the state of mind to be social. He didn't like to think about that so much though, so he decided against it.

It took the entire bag of chips and two more cigarettes before Eric's clunky little Gremlin rolled up. It sounded like it was on its last legs, and Neil thought that when he got his next job, he'd buy Eric something cool and flashy to drive instead (after he bought one for himself, of course).

Eric got out of the car and Neil just took a moment to stare at him as he approached. He hadn't appeared to have dyed his hair in a while, and he wasn't wearing make-up like he usually did. He looked worn to the bone and unbearably lonely. Neil wasn't sure how he saw the loneliness on Eric's face, but he knew that was what it was, hiding in the hollows around his eyes.

"Sorry it took so long," Eric said, pulling his maroon-colored jacket more firmly around himself. "It takes a while to get this baby going, you know?"

Neil nodded and pushed himself off the wall. Eric stared at him with this somber, semi-adoring look. It was as though he couldn't decide whether to fall head-over-heels or turn on said heel and run far, far away.

"It's good to see you, Neil," Eric said. "I really didn't think you'd show up."

"Like I said before, I'm full of surprises," Neil said, offering a slightly cheeky grin before tossing his suitcase into Eric's back seat and hauling himself into the passenger seat. Once Eric was inside, blasting the heater, Neil added, "Besides… this is… important."

Eric nodded and pulled off, and Neil stared at the skyline stretched out forever in front of them.

"So…" Neil said. "Tell me."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Eric didn't speak right away. Neil watched the boy as he carefully drove over patches of ice, worrying his bottom lip under his top teeth as he tried to put together the right way to say it in his head. It took several minutes before he finally said something, and when he did it was, "Well… I still haven't been able to talk to him… I did see him though, once."

Neil waited for Eric to go on, but the boy didn't seem to have anything else to say. Frankly he just looked ashamed of himself for making so little progress. Neil sighed and looked back out the window. "Don't blame yourself, Eric. You didn't do anything."

"Exactly. I didn't do anything," Eric replied. "That's why I'm so pissed at myself, you know? Brian's my friend… he should be able to count on me for stuff."

Neil offered a smirk, but it was halfhearted at best. "You don't count on me for shit."

"Yeah, well, you don't exactly have the best track record, McCormick."

"I'm here now, aren't I?"

Eric looked at him, expression somewhat unreadable. "Yeah… you are. I wouldn't believe it if you weren't sitting right there though… What's with the sudden shift in attitude?"

"Nothing," Neil said defensively, looking back out the window. "I just know that… I have something to do with this, I guess."

"That never made you feel the need to take action before."

Neil looked down into his lap. "This is different."

Eric turned his eyes back on the road, falling silent for a moment before asking, "So, what's the story then? You still haven't told me."

"I'm not going to," Neil said, and when Eric scoffed in protest he added, "You don't need to know the details. You've already figured out what's going on so hearing me confirm it won't make you feel better. Besides, I don't want to fucking talk about it, and I know you'd never be able to look at me or Brian the same way again, so just drop it."

Eric paused, swallowed, and said, "I wouldn't look at either of you differently. Your past isn't what makes you who you are."

It was Neil's turn to scoff. "If you don't think what happened to us that summer shaped us in some way then you're even dumber than I thought."

"What you do or what you did… it isn't who you are. You can let it define you if you want, but… you don't have to. Trust me, it took effort, but I'm not labeled as that weird kid whose parents died."

"Yeah, you are," Neil said flatly. Maybe that was a little cruel, but he couldn't help it.

"To other people," Eric said, taking a corner gently, "but not to me. I know I'm more than that."

Neil wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just stayed quiet.

* * *

They stopped at Neil's mother's house first because he figured he needed to stash his clothes somewhere, and he really thought he'd feel better once he saw his mom. Ellen McCormick was stunned and squealing with joy at the sight of him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him just a smidgen too tight. Neil liked being able to breathe in her smell again though, and he didn't mind the split second where her hug rendered him unable to breathe.

She corralled them both inside and started bustling about the kitchen, making cocoa and offering some store-bought chocolate chip cookies.

"Neil, what on God's green earth are you even doing here?" she asked, sitting down next to him on the couch, close enough that their knees touched. She handed him a mug of hot chocolate and ran her hand through his hair.

"I got a new job," Neil said, glancing at Eric. "Thought I'd surprise you with a visit."

"A new job? Oh, honey, tell me all about it," she said.

"Well, it's nothing too spectacular, but the pay is good," he said, wanting to laugh at how the first half of the sentence was a lie and the second half was an underestimation. "I met this guy, uh, Eames, who hired me on to work with him. He's got like this… little tiny group of people, and they all do reconnaissance stuff for big expensive companies on the down low so it's not all over the news. He says I'm a natural."

Eric's eyebrows shot up on his forehead, and Neil could tell he was questioning the truthfulness of this story. Sure, it wasn't completely true, but it wasn't completely false either. He did have a feeling Eric assumed Eames was an older guy that Neil was fucking for money, hired on as his own personal whore, but whether or not Eric learned the reality of the situation, Neil knew the boy would be sorely disappointed (or hell, he might start going off on that whole "liking Eames" nonsense that Wendy had been doing, and Neil wasn't sure which response would be worse).

"Oh, baby, that's wonderful," she said, and she hugged him again. "You'll have to tell this Mr. Eames I said thank you."

"Oh, you just wait," Neil told her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and kissing her forehead. "This is going to change everything. I'm going to buy you a new house with a giant front porch."

"You're making that much money?" Eric clearly was skeptical now. "You don't even have a college education."

Neil shrugged. "Like I said, I'm a natural. Besides, as long as you handle the training well then who the hell needs a degree? It's just a piece of paper."

For the first time in a long time, Eric cracked a genuine smile. "Well, fuck, sign me up for that."

"Me too," Ellen said.

Neil just sipped at his cocoa, not wanting to go into any more detail or make any more promises he ultimately couldn't keep.

"So, where'd you meet this guy?" Eric asked, and Neil would have flinched if he wasn't in front of his mother. He knew what the boy would assume regardless of what he said. He knew Eric would think Neil met him at the hustler bar.

"He caught me on the way home from work. He was looking for the subway. He's like… British or whatever, so he didn't know his way around… and you know, we shot the shit, and things just kind of went from there. He's an all right guy."

Neil was surprised by how much he had to suppress the urge to talk about Eames, to lay him out in detail after detail until his mother and Eric could picture him perfectly in their minds. It was a little bit terrifying, if he was being honest with himself, that the details even existed in his brain in the first place, only magnified by the way they dangled off the tip of his tongue.

His mom may not have noticed the tiny mental crisis Neil was having over this fact, but Eric seemed to, and Neil wondered for a moment if the boy finally had achieved the power to read minds.

"Well, hey, Eric and me, we were going to cruise around a bit, get some celebratory drinks and stuff, but I'll be back later tonight, all right?"

"Oh, at least eat lunch first," Ellen laughed and went into the kitchen. Neil was pretty sure nothing could spoil her mood at this point. "I've got some Campbell's chicken noodle. Is that okay?"

"Sounds great, Mrs. M," Eric called and then leveled Neil with a stare.

"What?" Neil asked.

"Who is this Eames guy, really?" Eric whispered, even though it was severely doubtful Ellen could hear them over her loud, slightly off-key humming. "Did you meet him… you know?"

Neil rolled his eyes. "No, I didn't. Believe what you want, but the subway thing was the truth. He's not even my type… He's only a little older than me." He didn't look Eric in the eyes as he said the last of it.

"You're lying," Eric said.

"I'm not, okay?" Neil said defensively. "He's really around my age, I swear. He's like… the same height as me, brown hair and is not balding, kind of bulky, but not old. If I had a picture of him, I'd show you to prove it, but I don't."

Damn those fucking details.

Eric stared at him a bit suspiciously but said, "Okay then… Man, I've never seen you get so defensive of someone before."

"I'm not getting _defensive_ ," Neil complained. "I just think it's kind of fucking annoying that you think the only way I meet people is through sex."

"Well, forgive me for assuming what's usually true," Eric replied sarcastically, and then added, "Man, what happened to you in the city? You're like a completely different person. I'm not complaining, but… it's weird."

"How am I different?"

"You… give a crap about people besides yourself," Eric said. "I mean… I thought that living in the city was supposed to sort of have the opposite effect, like make you hardened and even less friendly, and when you came back for Christmas you were like that, but… suddenly you've had this huge shift in attitude, and I want to know the cause."

Neil shrugged, arms folded protectively around himself. "I don't feel all that different."

"Well… it doesn't matter," Eric assured him. "Let's just go eat."

Neil followed Eric into the kitchen and didn't say that yes, it _did_ matter, because he knew Eric wouldn't understand.

Neil McCormick's walls were starting to crumble, and he didn't know what was on the other side. Eames may not have reached his secrets when he'd gone under with him on the PASIV, but he was doing quite a lot to get a hold of them now, even in reality, and Neil was pretty sure the man wasn't even _trying_. He'd been building up his defenses in his subconscious, but hadn't been paying much mind to the ones on the surface, and he knew that in the future he would have to be more careful.

He just hoped he'd be able to hang onto the control he so desperately worked for.

In the end, it was all he'd ever had.

* * *

Lunch was pleasant enough, Eric and Neil and Mrs. McCormick chatting idly about this or that. Neil effortlessly wove fantastic stories about his time in New York that weren't even remotely true, and Eric complained about the constant, ever the same boringness of Hutchinson and living with his grandparents. Neil could feel Eric's loneliness practically bleeding from every word. Neil's mother was still working at the grocery store and had interesting little anecdotes about certain customers, but more or less life was still routine. She also apparently had a date on Friday with a guy named Dallas, and Neil poker-faced his way through her description of him as he realized that he'd fucked said Dallas once or twice.

When the soup had been eaten and extended see-you-laters had been said, Neil and Eric piled back into the Gremlin and took off for Little River.

The drive was still slow and steady because of the weather, and Neil couldn't imagine the torture of driving down this plane of highway again and again, slow as a fucking turtle while having no company but the bitter, desperate, frightened thoughts of what one would find when they reached their destination. He felt bad that Eric had to endure it, but he didn't let him know that it made him feel bad. He'd slipped up more than enough as it was already.

"He might be even less willing to talk with you there," Eric offered after the silence had dragged on for too long.

Neil lit up a cigarette. "Probably, but he'll talk to me anyway, I'd imagine."

"Because of what happened?"

"Because I'm the only one who was there for all of it."

Neil knew one thing was for sure—whether or not he and Brian saw eye-to-eye (they didn't) about that rainy night in the summer at Coach's house, Neil understood better than anyone what Brian was living with. Their reactions might have been different, but the beginning of their stories was still the same. He had a hunch that Brian wasn't talking to Eric not because he didn't want to, but because he was trying to make sense of everything, and he knew Eric wouldn't understand. Eric would try, most definitely, but there was no way he could know quite what was going on in Brian's head.

Neil passed his cigarette to Eric who took a long drag off of it gratefully. "So, what are you going to do when we get there?" Eric asked. "What should I do?"

Neil took his cigarette back, puffed on it for a moment or two. "I'm sort of playing it by ear, I guess. You can't exactly plan for this kind of shit, you know? If he wants you there, then come along. If he doesn't, wait in the living room or in the car or whatever. I'll let him have his speech or whatever he wants, and… well, I don't know what'll happen, but it's all I can do. You can't be pissed off or upset if the answer isn't in your favor. This is just how it's got to be."

Eric nodded solemnly and said, "I know…" Neil knew that Eric would still be upset if Brian chose to cut them out of his life or do something even more drastic (Neil refused to put serious thought into what that would mean because it made him far too uncomfortable). He hoped that it would at least lessen the sting to know that there was nothing Eric could have done to start with.

Neil tossed his ashes out of the cracked window and rolled it back up, handing the rest of it back to Eric. It started to snow as they drove down the empty highway, and Neil looked out at the harvested fields and the skeletal trees with blackened limbs reaching everywhere. He thought of Coach's hand on his face, his fingers sliding across his lips and into his mouth. Then he thought of Eames, brushing the blood away from the cut on his face, the stain cherry red on his thumb.

"Neil."

He jolted when he felt a hand on his shoulder. When he realized he'd fallen asleep in the car, all he could think of was Brighton Beach's car, the one he'd slept in so peacefully before he'd—

" _Neil_ ," Eric said more earnestly, and Neil realized that he was flailing against his touch. "Relax, man… You must have been having one hell of a nightmare."

Neil refrained from saying _you have no idea_. "I'm fine. Just… you just startled me a little is all. I didn't realize I fell asleep."

"We're here."

Neil fell quiet, staring at the house presented before him. It was such an average house, so quaint and family-like. Neil had occasionally imagined houses like this for him and his mom when he was really small, back before he realized how stupid the traditional family unit was and how it would never suit them. It did fit Brian though, at least the fuzzy, blurry image of him he'd gotten before they actually reunited. It was a house a normal boy could grow up in.

They got out, Neil hunching into his coat as they climbed the porch steps to the door, and Eric knocked three times.

It took a couple of minutes, but the door opened, revealing an older, blonde woman that was probably Brian's mother. Neil couldn't help but think how different she was from his own mother.

"Oh, hi, Eric," she said, voice a little unsure. Neil betted that they had done this before, talking through the screen door about Brian when the boy refused to be seen. "Who's your friend?"

Neil swallowed a mouthful of saliva and said, "Neil McCormick. I knew your son when we were little. We were on the same baseball team."

He waited for a moment to see if any kind of horrible recognition dawned on her face, but when it didn't, that confirmed to him that Brian hadn't spoken of their night in Coach's house.

"Is… is he here?" Eric asked softly.

"He's up in his room studying right now. I can ask him if he wants—"

"This is kind of important," Neil interrupted, "and it'll only take a few minutes, so uh… can you just let us in?"

She stared into his eyes, and Neil sort of wished he'd come as Arthur with his suit and slicked back hair. She wouldn't have been so wary of him if he'd looked more presentable, he guessed… but then again, Eric had always had more dramatic flair in his clothes than Neil ever had, and she seemed to like him just fine.

She sighed. "Okay, but just for a minute." She opened the door and they wandered in. The heat inside was welcoming, but Neil couldn't help but look around at the living room where Brian had probably played as a child, the walkway towards the kitchen where he'd eaten his meals. Their Christmas tree had been taken down, but the furniture hadn't been moved back yet, so there was a large empty space in the corner.

He didn't wait for her to give directions, instead starting up the stairs towards what he figured was Brian's room. He could hear music playing inside, the kind of somber melodies Eric had always been so fond of. The door was locked, so he knocked.

"Yeah?" Brian's voice came from inside. It made Neil's stomach feel like it was on the spin cycle.

He couldn't speak for that moment, afraid he'd hurl all over the place, so he knocked again. A moment passed, and then the music turned down, and the doorknob clicked as it was unlocked.

"Mom, I'm—" Brian started to say but fell silent when he saw Neil standing in the doorway.

"Hi," Neil said, voice barely a whisper.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Brian opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Neil didn't move from his spot, staring back at the boy, feeling queasy. Brian looked bad; he had dark bruises of exhaustion under each eye, and his hair was starting to get shaggy and hang in his over the rim of his glasses, and he looked like he'd dropped a noticeable amount of weight since Neil had seen him last.

For a moment Neil found himself surprisingly _angry_. Brian looked like he was withering away, had surely been so for some time, and for the entirety of that time he was here in this house. The fact that Brian's mother had either not noticed or had not at least addressed it made Neil want to seethe in rage. The feeling was so unexpected that he was momentarily overwhelmed by it. The craziest thing was that he didn't know if the woman had confronted Brian about it or not, and he didn't really know either of them well enough to accurately predict such a thing…

…but as he stood there, really thinking about it, he realized that there was another emotion most definitely dampening the anger.

 _Guilt_.

He wasn't sure why he felt it, considering none of this was his fault, but…

"What are you doing here?"

Neil jolted a little, staring wide-eyed at Brian when he remembered where he was. "Eric," Neil said, "Eric told me that… that you wouldn't talk to him. He was worried about you."

Brian's expression looked a little like he'd tasted a lemon, but then he looked away. "I'm not mad at Eric," he mumbled. "I just… I needed some time to think about…"

"Yeah, I know," Neil said because he did. "He just thought…"

"What," Brian said bitterly, looking back at Neil with a grimace, "that I was going to kill myself?"

Neil's stomach twisted into another knot. "I don't know what he thought… exactly…"

"I don't want to see you," Brian said, "ever again."

"That's fine," Neil said, lifting his hands up in defense only for Brian to flinch away from him like he was going to do something. "That's fine," Neil said again, "but don't take this out on Eric. He hasn't got anything to do with this. You don't have to tell him about what happened, but—"

"Don't have to?" Brian asked, face screwing up as he barked out a sarcastic laugh. "That sure takes a load off of my mind. It's only the only fucking thing I can think about."

"Brian—"

"No, you're not allowed to talk anymore," Brian growled, shoving a finger into Neil's face. "I let you talk enough that night. There's nothing else for you to say."

A muscle jumped in Neil's jaw, but he stayed silent.

"I don't know what you expected out of me now," Brian said, "but I'm fucking _angry_. Everything I've ever been, everything I've ever done—it feels like it was all based upon that night. That fucking night has come to _define_ everything… and you don't know how it fucking feels because you _liked it_ —"

Neil momentarily saw red, and when his vision cleared, Brian was on the floor, hands cupped around a bloody nose, and Neil's fist was extended out in front of him, shaking. There was a smear of blood across his knuckles. Neil gaped at the boy crying out in pain at his feet, feeling like he couldn't breathe for a second.

Neil had punched Brian.

That certainly hadn't been the plan.

Just as Mrs. Lackey and Eric were coming up the steps to see what was going on, Neil turned and swept past them and out the door. He grabbed his bag out of Eric's car and started down the street. He heard Eric call after him, heard him shout, "What happened? Neil! What did you do? Come on, come back! Neil!"

Neil kept walking.

His ears were ringing with the sounds of Brian's cries, the same sounds he'd heard that night on the couch in Coach's house. His nose had bled the same way too, gushing crimson red across his lips and chin, a stain on Neil's jeans. Neil was a stain on Brian's life.

He knew it had been a mistake to come back here. The further away from Hutchinson, the better off he was. There was no helping Brian, and he didn't know why he'd even tried. Looking out for anyone but himself had been his first fault—there was a reason why he shut himself off. Nothing good could come of his attempts at kindness. It had just been a moment of weakness, in the end.

Neil walked briskly out of the neighborhood and up onto the highway. He was pretty sure there was no chance in hell that he could make the walk back to Hutchinson, but he couldn't stop himself from moving. Even with the warm leather coat, it still didn't take too long before his extremities were going numb. Once again he was relieved to feel nothing in his bones, the freezing air filling him up and replacing all of his organs. His eyes stung against the wind, little flakes of snow falling into his hair and onto his shoulders, and again he thought of God and how he had pretended to hear him that night all of those years ago.

Madly, he considered screaming at the sky for the deity to fucking show himself and take responsibility for all of the fucked up suffering in this world, but he knew it was a lost cause. He'd stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.

After a while, he heard a car approaching and wasn't exactly surprised to find Eric pulling up next to him. He imagined if it had been a more reliable car, he would've reached Neil long before the highway… or perhaps he wanted to let Neil freeze a little bit for hurting his precious Brian.

Eric reached over and rolled down the passenger window a smidgen so that Neil could hear him. "Neil, get in the car."

"Go fuck yourself, Eric," Neil replied, not even bothering to glance his way.

"You're going to freeze."

"Fuck _off_ , Eric," Neil said with a bit more malice. "Shouldn't you be back at the house, tending to your little boyfriend?"

"He might be bleeding but at least he's not at risk of frost bite," Eric said. "Get in the car, and let's go back and talk about this like adults."

Neil turned to look at Eric for a moment because it was honestly the most insane thing he'd heard all day. "I tried talking," Neil said. "I'm done. I did my best and I failed, so now you have to live with it. That's what I told you to start with. Besides, he doesn't ever want to see me again."

"Why did you hit him, Neil? Come on, please get back in the car. I won't take you back to Brian's, I swear. Just get inside before your arms and legs fall off."

Neil just kept his eyes forward, kept moving his legs, one foot in front of the other.

He heard Eric's car pull over and stop, and then he heard the door slam shut.

"Neil," Eric said, jogging to catch up to him. "Neil, come on, please."

When Eric reached out to grab Neil's arm, he turned and smacked at his hands. After that it sort of became a shoving match, Eric trying to pull Neil back towards the car while Neil resisted every way he knew how. His movements were sluggish from the cold compared to Eric's, but he was still stronger than him and meaner too. When Eric seemed to have the upper hand, Neil kicked him in the knee, and the boy let out a cry of pain that sounded entirely too much like Brian's.

Neil turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could.

* * *

When Neil got too tired and cold to move, he let himself be picked up by a passing truck driver. By then the tips of his fingers were turning blue, but the heat inside the truck helped. He slept in the passenger seat for about twenty minutes or so when the man pulled off into a gas station, and then he got out and went inside the convenience store.

He dug inside his backpack for some cash to grab something to eat, but instead he found the paperwork Eames had sent to him. He wandered off to the side and flipped through it again for no real reason, and for a moment he just wanted to sit down in the corner and cry (also for no reason). He shoved the papers back inside and went to put the passport away when a scrap of paper slipped out of it. There was a phone number on it that Neil didn't recognize, but he knew immediately who it had to be.

Neil dug up all the change he had and went to the payphone, inserting each coin one at a time and leaving a pile of them below it in case he needed more. Still shivering from the cold, he dialed the number, pressed the phone to his ear, and waited.

It took several rings before anyone picked up, but then there it was, voice heavy with sleep, "Hello?"

"Eames?" Neil said softly, filled with disbelief. He'd had his number all of this time and hadn't even noticed.

There was a moment of silence and then a yawn on the other line. "Who's this?"

Neil cringed. He thought for a second that he really must have been that forgettable, but then he figured he probably sounded different on a phone thousands of miles away. "It's Neil," he said.

"Oh," Eames said, sounding more awake. Neil could hear him shifting on the bed, couldn't help but imagine the man naked and wrapped in a sheet, hair mussed and eyes sleepy. Neil would have expected the mental image to conjure desire, but instead it just sledge-hammered him with loneliness and a longing to see Eames face to face. "Didn't know if you'd ever ring me up."

"I didn't know the number was in the paperwork," Neil said. "I just found it."

"It's all right," Eames said. "It's good to know you still give a damn about me, I suppose. How are things on your side of the pond?"

Neil swallowed thickly. "Uh, fine, I guess," he said softly. "I'm just… bored, you know? I want to get back to work."

"There's nothing quite like it, is there? Well, the heat seems to be dying down already, so I'd say in another week I'll start looking for jobs again. I'll see if I can't find one for you too, yeah? I need to touch base with you anyway and show you all the different technology you can practice on to become an ace pointman… Mm… maybe I should start traveling before the week is out. Do you want to meet up somewhere?"

"I'm in Kansas right now," Neil said, feeling like his brain had switched over to auto-pilot.

"Oh, darling, no wonder you're bored."

Neil smiled and felt like sobbing at the same time. "I'm visiting my mom… but if you want to come here, I… I can pick you up at the airport. No one would ever suspect you of anything here anyway so you'd probably be even safer here than you would be at… wherever you are."

Eames hummed thoughtfully. Neil wanted to pull him through the phone and kiss him. "Okay, I suppose I can give that a try. It may take me a few days."

"That's fine," Neil assured him, wondering why he was doing this. He felt like he was going insane. "You can just call when you get here."

He gave Eames his mother's number, and they said their goodbyes. Neil hung up and went back outside, asking a man with Hutchinson plates if he could take him back into the city. Apparently he looked pathetic enough to not render any threat, because the man agreed to (though Neil sweetened the deal by offering to pay for his gasoline).

* * *

When Neil got back to his mom's house, he acted as though everything had gone splendidly. He played the part precisely as he always had, and his mother didn't suspect a thing had gone awry. He slept on the couch during the day though most of the time because there were some things in his room that he didn't want to face in the daylight.

He slept for most of the next day, only getting up to be social with his mom during meals. He didn't really want the subject of Eric to come up, so instead he found himself talking about Eames (he was, after all, headed towards them at some point).

He explained to her that Eames was getting more work lined up and would be coming to Hutchinson to give Neil the details and that he was expecting a phone call from him any day now. He described Eames to her, letting the little details slip out because her suspicions about Eames would be far less horrifying than any suspicions about why Eric wasn't around, and his mother listened intently to every word. The more he told her about Eames, the more she seemed to like him, and for some reason that made Neil very pleased.

It was over a lunch of grilled cheeses that she finally brought up, "You really seem to like this guy, Neil."

He was pretty sure she'd meant it in a platonic sense, not in the way Wendy had suggested, but it still made his face feel hot.

"Um… yeah, he's a really cool guy, I guess," Neil nodded, focusing on his sandwich instead of her gaze.

"Honey," she said frankly and took his hand, squeezing it a little until he looked up at her. "Honey, you don't have to look so shy, you know? It's okay."

"What's okay?" Neil asked defensively.

She smirked at him, staring him down flatly. It was a look he was sure he'd had on his own face a million times. "Babe, I have seen that face before, okay? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were crushing on this Mr. Eames something fierce."

" _Crushing_?" Neil spluttered. "I'm not exactly in grade school anymore, Mom. I'm not _crushing_ on anyone, jeez."

"I think it's cute," she sing-songed, teasingly tousling his hair. "My little man has a crush."

"I'm not little, and I don't have a crush," he complained. "Fuck, Mom, have you ever known me to be that kind of guy?"

She sighed, leaning her cheek against her fist. "Well, _no_ ," she admitted, "but you wouldn't be getting so defensive of it if it wasn't true. It's not a big deal, you know."

Neil sighed too, slumping into his seat and taking another bite of his grilled cheese. "I don't want him to get the wrong idea about… _us_ … I guess," he said. "I don't want to lose this job just because he thinks I might… _like_ him."

"Well, what if he likes you back, Neil? Did you ever think of that?"

"He can't like me back because I don't _like_ him that way in the first place," Neil huffed. She was as bad as Wendy at this point.

"Okay, but what if, hypothetically, you liked him, and he liked you back? What then?"

"I don't know!" Neil said in frustration, throwing his hands in the air. "It wouldn't be all sunshine and rainbows and kisses in the rain or whatever the fuck… I'd guess we'd probably get sick of each other really fast."

"You don't know that for sure."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter because I don't have a crush on him anyway, all right?"

Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment, and he thought she might continue to poke and prod at this ridiculous notion, but instead she said, "New York's taking away your accent. I thought maybe I was imagining it, but you talk differently these days. Just a little bit."

"Oh," Neil said softly, and then added, "yeah, I guess I hadn't really noticed it."

"Well, hey," she said, combing her fingers through his hair again, "let me buy you a decent haircut. Whether you like him or not, you'll want to look nice for your Mr. Eames since he's your boss and all."

Neil figured it was as close as he was going to get to convincing her they were nothing more than friends (and bed partners that one time), so he just offered a small smile, a nod, and a thank you. "You don't have to pay for a haircut though," Neil assured her. "I can take care of it."

"I want to do it," Ellen said. "I should've gotten it for you before you ran off to New York. I'm your mom. I'm supposed to do nice things for you."

"All right, fine, but I'm buying ice cream for us afterwards," he said, giving her a quick kiss as he got up, carrying their paper plates to the trash can.

"I will most certainly take you up on that offer," she laughed. "Screw the fact that it's winter. Ice cream is good year round."

It felt good to smile, and it definitely felt good to spend time with his mother. He never really realized how much he missed her until he was back around her. He'd gotten used to her not being around much since she was usually gone when he was little, but he really did love her company.

She didn't have the suspicions about things that Eric did or question his morality like he was sure Wendy did. When he was with his mother, he didn't have to think about that summer when he was eight or talk about what had happened in his past.

That time in his life may have come to define who he was, but when he was with his mom, he didn't have to look in the mirror.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Neil got the phone call from Eames exactly four days after their last conversation. It was barely daylight out as he slid into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, tugged on his old, beat up tennis shoes, and threw on his coat. His mom ruffled her hand through his hair (now with the back curls chopped off), and they shared a cigarette as they drove to the airport in the protesting Impala.

Neil did his best to act casual about the whole thing, talking about anything but Eames so he wouldn't appear excited. Still, in his head he was thinking about the man constantly, wondering what he'd gotten up to in Mombasa. Had he gambled away a paycheck or won one? What kind of food had he been eating? What cigarettes had he been smoking? Most of all he wondered who Eames had been sharing his bed with. Normally he didn't give a damn about that sort of stuff, and it wasn't like he and Eames were anywhere near exclusive, but when he thought about the man with someone else it just sort of bummed him out.

He hopped out of the car and assured his mother he'd be right back and to leave the car running (he feared it might fail to start again otherwise), and then he went inside, dodging a few kids chasing each other and nearly running into an old lady who was shuffling after them in the process. He rolled his eyes and headed off towards baggage claim, figuring that was where he'd find Eames.

He was right about that, but the insane urge to go running into his arms when he spotted him was entirely unexpected. Neil nearly stopped in his tracks completely because of it, feeling that bizarre ache in his chest he only seemed to get when Eames was around. When Eames turned and saw Neil standing there, when Neil could actually look into his eyes, that feeling got so much worse.

"Well," Eames said, smiling, and Neil wanted to just bask in the warmth of it, "there you are."

"Here I am," Neil said, shoving his hands in his pockets, keeping his expression as carefully neutral as he could manage.

Eames sauntered over, dropping the duffel bag he'd had over one shoulder at their feet when they were mere inches away from each other. "You've cut your hair," Eames said. "It looks nice."

"Thanks," Neil said awkwardly. He wanted to reach out and glide his fingers across Eames's mouth, as if his other bed partners had kissed their names in Braille there. "How was the flight?"

"I've had worse plane rides," he grinned at Neil. "I was looking forward to it I suppose. I've never been to Kansas before."

"You're not missing much," Neil said, picking up the man's bag and heading back towards the parking area.

"I'm sure you find ways to make things interesting whenever you're here," Eames said, falling into step next to Neil.

"Interesting is one way to put it," Neil replied. He wouldn't exactly label punching Brian in the face and then running scared down a frozen highway as interesting so much as just pathetic, but he'd lost enough sleep over that fact. "My mom's waiting with the car over here."

"Oh, so I get to meet your mum then?" Eames asked, sounding entirely too delighted.

"Yep," Neil said, "you sure do…"

The walk to the car was short, but by the time they got there they were both shivering. He was pretty sure wherever Eames had been was pretty warm because his skin was more bronzed than it had been last they saw each other. Eames climbed into the backseat, while Neil got back into the passenger side, and Ellen turned around in hers to give Eames a long onceover.

"Mr. Eames, I presume?" Ellen asked, putting on a rather atrocious fake English accent.

"That would be me," Eames said, smiling. "It's a pleasure."

"Ellen," she told him, holding out her hand to somewhat awkwardly shake. "Ellen McCormick."

* * *

The drive had been slow but not nearly as uncomfortable as the one with Eric. Ellen sang along to the songs playing on the tinny radio system, and Neil looked out the window—or rather feigned looking out the window. He could see Eames's reflection a little bit in the glass, and it was the best way to stare without directly looking at the man. Neil's mother would ask Eames questions during musical interludes, and Eames answered her expertly. Neil couldn't fathom how much Eames could talk about mind crime without actually talking about it.

"So, Mr. Eames," she said as she was pulling onto Monroe Street, "do you have yourself a girlfriend then?"

"Are you offering?" Eames teased, causing them both to laugh (and for Neil to just feel like his face was on fire). "No, no, I don't," he said more seriously although still smiling. "The girls have never quite been my interest."

"Ah, I see," Ellen said, grinning. She turned and sent a subtle wink at Neil, and Neil momentarily thought about killing himself out of embarrassment. "So, no boyfriend then either?"

"The travel that my kind of work requires doesn't really lend well to relationships, but when I'm with someone it is what I'd prefer. No, I'd suffice to say I'm single right now."

Neil looked into the rearview mirror and saw Eames's eyes, as if he was staring right at him. He swallowed. He was beyond relieved when they pulled up into the driveway, meaning that conversation could kind of peter off without a real destination. He was the first one at the front door, unlocking it with his own set of keys.

"It's not much," Ellen said, "but it's home. Feel free to make yourself comfortable, and I'll order us a pizza for dinner tonight. There's cereal on top of the fridge if you want breakfast. I actually have to get ready to go to work though so…"

"Thank you," Eames said, and she beamed at him.

As she passed by Neil to go take a shower, she whispered to him, "He's so _cute_ , Neil." Neil did his best not to groan.

After she was gone, he tossed his coat over a chair and threw himself onto the couch. He opened his eyes when Eames lifted his feet and sat down in place of them, letting them fall into his lap. "She's normally not so embarrassing," Neil said flatly.

"It's a mother's job. She seems to like me though, so that's good."

"If I met your mother, she probably wouldn't like me very much," Neil said.

"Yes, well, she probably wouldn't but mostly because she didn't like that I had a preference for men. You don't have to worry about that though, since she died about two years ago."

Neil couldn't imagine such a thing. His mother might have been out of reach a lot of the time, but she was always there when it counted. He didn't say anything though because he doubted Eames was interested in pity over a two-year-old grave.

"I'm sorry, by the way," Eames said suddenly, and Neil raised an eyebrow at him. "Well… I mean, I probably should have woken you before I left, but you looked like you were sleeping so peacefully that I didn't dare to."

"Oh…" Neil said slowly. He hadn't expected that. "Uh… don't worry about it."

Eames sat back, staring at the television that had been left on. It was some daytime talk show, the trashy kind, and the volume was too low to really hear much of what was going on. "You sounded distressed when you called me the other day," he said softly. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah… just had a… a rough patch, I guess. I was pissed off at one of my friends. It's nothing."

Eames hummed softly. "Yes, I suppose I know how that feels… but it certainly didn't sound like nothing on the phone. You sounded like you were about to cry."

"Well I wasn't," Neil huffed. "I don't cry."

"I seem to remember you crying in my arms at least twice."

Neil clenched his jaw and looked away. He wasn't having any of that. "Shut up," he mumbled.

"It's okay to cry when you're hurting, you know… It's okay to feel remorse or anger when something bad happens. Bottling it all up doesn't help."

"I'm not bottling anything up," Neil complained. "I'm fine. It really was nothing… I don't even remember what we were fighting about…"

That was a lie, of course. He'd seen Brian's bleeding face in all of his daydreams, heard his bitter words echoing through his brain whenever he was alone.

" _You don't know how it fucking feels because you liked it."_

He really didn't know why that had set him off so quickly and so violently. He _had_ liked it, hadn't he? For so long he'd looked upon that summer with fondness, afternoons wasted away between two lovers… but admittedly, since Christmas, the memories had lost their rose-colored hue, and he'd been sitting on that fact in conflict ever since. There was something eerily similar between that first time in the summer on Coach's kitchen floor and that night in Brighton Beach's bathtub… but he refused to focus on that connection. He didn't like the way it tasted in his mouth.

"So, who were you fighting with?" Eames asked.

Neil knew Eames would remember the name Brian from Neil's dream level, so instead he said, "Eric." It wasn't exactly a lie, since Eric hadn't shown his face on Monroe Street since Neil had told him to fuck off. He doubted Eric was all that angry with him and was likely just giving him some space, but his name was the one he went with.

"School mate of yours?"

"Yeah," Neil sighed, closing his eyes again for a minute. He could feel Eames gently squeezing his ankle, rubbing his thumb against the protruding bone. "He and I hung out mostly after Wendy left for New York. I had to finish school before I could meet her there. Eric's queer like me so we kind of just fell into step together. I mean… there aren't that many people who dress and act like us around here. If you aren't strong enough, you'll get your ass kicked."

"So, were you dating then?"

"No," Neil said, squirming a little. "We fucked once or twice when we were bored, but I was already hustling by then so I preferred to get my sex elsewhere. Eric was kind of obsessed with me for a while though. I don't know if he ever completely got over it."

Eames was silent for a moment, and then he asked, "When exactly did you start selling your body?"

Neil was tempted to say he'd been selling since he was eight, since Coach would hand him crisp five dollar bills after they had sex, but he was pretty sure Eames wouldn't understand that, so he just said, "I was fifteen. There's a park not too far from here, Carey Park, where I would go and wait. It was really easy. After I got a little older I'd go down to the gay bar instead."

Eames's expression was unreadable. Neil watched him curiously, waiting for some kind of response, but he never really got one.

"What was your first job?" Neil asked.

"Oh, me?" Eames said, blinking. "I was an actor. I did a couple of community shows, bit parts most of the time, but they paid me for it."

"So in a sense you kind of sold your body too," Neil said, grinning lazily. "You just sold it for applause rather than for orgasms."

"Well, there's less chance of contracting diseases from applause, I suppose," Eames said. "Did you never think of doing anything else?"

"I did the announcements at the baseball field… but no, not really… I always went back to hustling. It made better money than any stupid minimum wage job. I didn't have the grades or the work ethic for college, I don't think. I just kind of wanted to do whatever I wanted."

"Well, don't we all," Eames said, hesitated, and then said, "That night that we met though… you hadn't been selling yourself for a bit. You told me you hadn't been laid in a while. Did something change?"

" _You're getting fucked whether you like it or not, slut."_

"Business slows down during the holidays. Johns on the down low probably feel guiltier with Jesus looking at them from the street corners or whatever. Besides, Wendy wanted me to do some 'honest' work, I guess. She got me the job at the sub sandwich place."

Eames didn't look like he quite believed him, but he didn't say anything about it. "So you were basically making sandwiches until I came along then."

"You can see why I was so eager to join your community," Neil snorted. "It's not even about the money though… even though the money is fucking awesome. I just don't want to be bored anymore. I think too much about stupid shit when I'm bored."

"What kind of stupid shit?" Eames asked.

Neil didn't look into his eyes as he mumbled, "Nothing… just stuff, you know?"

Eames sighed, lifting Neil's legs so he could get out from under them, and Neil shut his eyes, intending on taking a nap so he wouldn't have to talk about it anymore.

"I think I'm going to get some of that cereal," Eames said, and Neil nearly jumped out of his skin when the man leaned over and kissed him right in the middle of his forehead. "Do you want any?"

"N—no, no thanks," Neil said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice over the shock of what had just happened.

He heard the shower turn off in the bathroom down the hall.

* * *

After Neil's mom had gone off to work, Neil had gotten his nap, and Eames had finished his breakfast, they settled in to work. Eames showed Neil different types of surveillance equipment in booklets (he explained that it would be best not to carry bags upon bags of such devices onto a plane for fear that they'd never let him off of it). Neil listened intently as Eames explained what they did and how they worked, and he even took notes. Most of the tools had to be purchased on the black market or from double agents in the government, so they were far from cheap, but Eames assured Neil that he could use his until he got a set for himself.

When Eames asked Neil about the PASIV device, Neil assured him that it was safely locked away in his and Wendy's new apartment back in New York. He'd put it in a trunk that had a lock on it, and the key was currently residing around Neil's neck. "No one would bother to come looking for it in the hands of two punk kids like me and Wendy, but if they did, they'd at least be a little delayed because they don't have the key.

"So you bought a new place then," Eames said. "That's good. You two weren't exactly in the safest area of town."

"There are worse places," Neil shrugged, studying Eames's notes on different filing systems used by other pointmen in the business. Neil thought that their systems were a bit to contrived and complicated, and he intended to make up his own that would be easier for everyone to understand. "Nobody would dare fuck with Wendy or me anyway, but now we have a really kickass loft."

"I'm looking forward to seeing it when we go back for the PASIV. Also, I've been looking for work and I found a job for us. It's a simple extraction job, no need for a forger so I'd be the extractor, but the payout is pretty nice. It would be good practice for you. We would start setting up in three weeks from now over in Paris. Interested?"

Neil looked at him, eyes bright with excitement. "Of _course_ I'm interested," he said. "That sounds fucking awesome. I've never been to Paris before. Hell, I've never even been out of the country."

"Well, I'll have it set up then, and I'll call an architect to build it, and a chemist friend of mine, Sasha, still owes me a favor or two."

"Can Wendy come?" Neil asked. "I mean… she's my best friend. She'd probably be pretty pissed if she didn't get to come along."

"Does she have a passport?"

"I don't know," Neil shrugged. "She could probably get one though, right?"

Eames looked skeptical. "I don't know if it's necessarily _safe_ to bring a tourist along."

"She won't be at the jobsite. She can just stay in my hotel room or whatever. If you think about it, we'd be even less suspicious because people will think she and I are just a couple vacationing overseas. I'll even buy her fancy clothes or whatever if you want."

The truth was that, while Neil could go weeks and months without seeing Wendy and manage just fine, at this point in time he really didn't want to. His feelings were already conflicting enough, and whenever he was in doubt he could go to Wendy. She was the only person who knew his secret (one of them, at least), and he knew she could help him make sense of these weird new emotions that Eames was bringing to the surface.

He also didn't feel quite safe to go anywhere by himself since Brighton Beach.

"I'll see what I can do," Eames sighed, giving in. "You have got some ridiculous puppy dog eyes on you, mate."

Neil smiled and put his arms around Eames and for a moment just leaned into his warmth.

As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn't sure his mom was so wrong about him having a crush after all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

They were in Hutchinson two more days, and then they were getting ready to fly to New York and from there to Paris. Neil had been about forced to sleep in his own room since Eames was there (they didn't have a guest room so Eames had to sleep on the couch), but he managed more or less. Eames didn't make any real moves to sleep in bed next to Neil either which he didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed over.

Neil had woken up that morning feeling weirdly shitty, but he couldn't remember dreaming anything to make him feel quite so terrible. He trudged into the bathroom to brush his teeth, dreading the long flight back to NYC if he was going to feel so terrible all day.

It was then that he saw Eames saunter in, hair sticking up on end and mumbling a good morning. Neil felt like all of his blood had turned to ice.

Eames squeezed in next to Neil at the sink, wetting the toothbrush he'd brought with him and reaching for the paste. He offered Neil a lazy smile and sniffed, and Neil spit in the sink and wiped his mouth with the hand towel hanging next to it.

"I hope the flight doesn't get delayed," Eames said lightly, still half-asleep and apparently unable to notice how on edge Neil suddenly was. "The weather channel said there were more snowstorms moving this way. Hopefully we'll get out of here before they hit, yeah?" He was about to put his toothbrush into his mouth when his brain seemed to finally catch up to him. His brows furrowed, and he touched Neil's shoulder, and he said, "Is something wrong?"

Neil closed his eyes, taking deep breaths through his nose to try and quell the sudden nausea just from the touch, and his body started to quiver from the effort. Neil hadn't expected such a sour reaction to take place at all, especially when it was Eames (whom Neil liked being touched by), but they were in a _bathroom_ , and when he was in a bathroom with someone else it was no longer just that room but the one in Brighton Beach, and he could hear the guy's voice echoing in his head, feel the way his skull slammed up against the porcelain of the tub, and he was actually _crying_ —

When Neil came back to the present, he was on the floor, gathered a bit haphazardly in Eames's arms, and he was vomiting into the toilet. Eames smoothed Neil's hair back from his forehead, shushing him gently, and Neil felt like he'd emptied out his whole body in just a few retches. He sank back against Eames when he was pretty sure he was done, but he still didn't open his eyes. He was just so afraid that he might see something awful, that he might see Brighton Beach's bathroom again and that this thing with Eames was a fantasy he'd concocted in his concussed state.

"It's all right," Eames voice said, soothingly soft. "Do you think you can stand?"

It was only then that Neil realized he'd been babbling the entire time. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

"Yeah… yeah," he croaked, finally opening his eyes to find he was still in his own bathroom and far away from Brighton Beach. He still needed Eames's help to get to his feet, and even when he was up he leaned heavily against him. Eames rubbed his hands up and down Neil's back until his trembling finally subsided, and then he got him a swallow of water in a Dixie cup. Neil swished it around in his mouth and spit it in the sink, and then Eames pressed his hand between his shoulder blades and gently pushed him into the living room and onto the couch.

"A bit of the lurgy maybe?" Eames questioned, pressing the palm of his hand to Neil's forehead. "Well, you don't have a fever. Perhaps it was just dinner from last night. That takeout didn't quite sit well with me either." Eames's hand drifted to the side of Neil's face, and at the moment Neil wasn't strong enough to resist leaning his cheek against it. Eames's thumb rubbed small circles along the line of his cheekbone. "Scared the hell out of me in there for a second, you know?"

"I'm sorry," Neil mumbled, just like he'd been crying from the bathroom. It was so bizarre because he was never sorry for anything.

"Everything all right?" Neil heard his mom's voice rather than saw her, but he could still picture her coming into the doorway and looking concerned.

"A touch of food poisoning," Eames assured her. "Nothing to worry about."

"My poor baby," she said, and Neil didn't look at her when she approached and ran her fingers through his hair. "Let me see if I can find you some medicine to take with you."

The room fell silent then, even the television having been turned off. Neil was starting to really miss the noise of the city, polluting the quiet and keeping his thoughts at bay. He opened his eyes again (not entirely sure when he'd closed them), and saw Eames still staring back at him, expression concerned, thumb still making those circles on his cheek.

Neil wanted to cry.

There was a knock at the door, causing them both to jolt. "Oh," Ellen said as she returned, handing a small bottle of anti-nausea pills to Eames (as if Neil had to be taken care of), "that must be Eric. I couldn't get the Impala to start this morning so I asked if he'd drive you guys to the airport."

If Neil had had anything on his stomach, he was pretty sure he would've been sick again.

"I'm sorry, honey," Ellen said, looking sympathetic, and she must have read his horror as disappointment. "You haven't spent much time with him though, so I thought it was only fair." Neil could only watch helplessly as she went to answer the door.

Eric, thankfully, at least looked better than he had. He was wearing his eyeliner again and all around looked a bit more put together. There was also the fact that he'd shown up at all that led Neil to believe they might just not talk about it at all. It was really all Neil could hope for.

"Hey," Eric greeted a little awkwardly and was instantly distracted by Eames. Neil had forgotten that they hadn't quite been introduced.

"Neil's a little under the weather today, so drive carefully over the bumps in the road, all right?" Neil's mother said, and Eric nodded even though Neil seriously doubted he even knew what he'd agreed to.

"Who's this?" Eric asked.

"Ah, I'm Eames," Eames said, standing and offering a hand to shake. "Neil's told me so much about you."

"He has?" Eric said, sounding even more stunned and skeptical than before.

"Well, a little," Eames conceded. "It's nice to meet you."

"Yeah… Nice to meet you too. Sorry, I just… I guess I just thought that you'd be a little older. I mean, considering you do like, crazy impressive high-paying work and whatnot."

Neil was pretty sure the last sentence was for his mother's benefit. He ignored it and went back to his room to grab his things. He tossed some extra clothes into his suitcase and had to sit on it to get it shut, and then he froze, staring at his top dresser drawer. He hadn't ventured to pull it open and look inside even once since he'd gotten there, but now he did, sliding it slowly outwards just enough to peek inside.

There was still a little bit of weed left, his stack of porn magazines, a wad of cash he wasn't sure why he'd forgotten about. He shoved some of the money into the pocket of his coat left thrown across the bed. There, underneath the bills was the picture of himself from that summer, his eyes closed, and his tongue sticking out to touch against Coach's thumb. Under that photo was the entire baseball team, Brian's eyes looking out at him sadly, even through his smile.

Neil remembered Brian bleeding on the floor, hands cupped around his nose and mouth like he was trying to hold in shock and horror.

Neil slammed the drawer shut and got dressed in a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved gray top, and a pair of boots. He threw his coat on and grabbed his suitcase, hauling it back out into the living room. Eric was asking questions about their work, and Eames was effortlessly dancing around the truth, giving out vague answers that didn't sound vague. Eric was still staring at the man like he was some sort of math problem, and Neil couldn't help but wonder if maybe he was a little jealous.

…then again, he hadn't told Eric that he and Eames had fucked. Maybe the boy could just tell. It seemed like everyone else could fucking tell.

* * *

After some extended goodbyes to his mother, Neil tossed his suitcase into the back of Eric's car and climbed in the passenger seat, letting Eames settle in the backseat with his own bag. It took a couple of turns to get the engine going, but then they were pulling out of the driveway and onto Monroe Street, and Neil gave the house one last glance before focusing on the road ahead of him.

He never did get around to asking his mother to come to New York. He would just buy her the home in Paris after this next job, he supposed.

"So, what brings you to Kansas?" Eric asked Eames, and Neil wanted to shove him hard and tell him to stop acting like a taxi driver. He didn't though, instead staring out the window, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Work," Eames said. "I've got us a new job lined up, and I figured I'd come tell Neil about it here. I wouldn't have wanted to cut his visit with his mother short after all. I imagine he doesn't get to see her much all the way in New York."

"He was here for Christmas," Eric said, and Neil felt the boy look at him from the corner of his eye, as if wondering if maybe he shouldn't have said anything. When Neil didn't respond, he continued, "She saved up some money to send him a plane ticket home for Baby Jesus's birthday."

"Well, a mother can never miss her son too much," Eames said.

"Yeah," Eric replied.

The car fell into a slightly uncomfortable silence. Neil dug out a cigarette and lit the tip. He took a drag off of it and then offered it to Eames in the back.

"So," Neil said, exhaling smoke, "you're not going to say anything about the other day then." He didn't know why he brought it up. Maybe he just felt like torturing himself.

Eric worried his bottom lip between his top teeth for a moment before saying, "I figured you didn't want to talk about it… I was pretty sure you didn't want to talk to me at all."

Neil took his cigarette back from Eames and kept looking out the window. "I didn't mean to hit him…" he mumbled, low enough that Eames couldn't quite grasp what he'd said over the rumble of the engine.

"I don't know what went on, and I'm not going to ask. Either way, at least he's talking to me again, you know? Well, talking is a strong word… letting me sit in the same room as him is more like it. He still doesn't seem to have much to say. After you hit him though, he did say he hoped you'd freeze to death."

"Who would've thought he could be so bitter," Neil snorted, rolling the window down a bit to tap his ashes just outside of it. "I get that he's angry, but it's not like it's my fault."

"Who's angry?" Eames asked. "What's not your fault?"

A moment of silence.

"So, you haven't told him about the other day then," Eric said.

Neil took another drag off the cigarette, stalling for time he supposed. "It's nothing," he said to Eames. "Just… Hutchinson stuff."

Eames didn't appear quite satisfied with the vague, guarded answer, but Neil figured Eames wasn't the only one on Earth with the right to answer questions that way.

Eric turned on his music, and they spent most of the rest of the drive not talking, Eric or Eames only occasionally breaking into small talk. Neil fell asleep with his head pressed against the window.

* * *

When they got to the airport, Eric got out of the car with them. Neil had expected the boy to just leave it idling and say his goodbyes from the window, but apparently not. While Eames wandered off a bit to smoke a cigarette, Eric pulled Neil off to the side.

"I honestly don't know if you care, but… I think it was a good thing you went to Brian's, even if it didn't go well," Eric said.

"So, he's happy I punched him in the face?" Neil asked flatly.

"No," Eric huffed. "He's super pissed off, but… I think that's good. I think it's good because before he really wasn't feeling anything at all."

Neil stayed silent.

"Maybe now that he's feeling something… that means he's facing what happened, and… he can start to heal, you know? That's how I feel about it at least… I mean, when my parents died, I shut down like that too, but after I had my moment to cry and be pissed at the world I honestly started to feel better… and I'm going to keep trying to help Brian. Maybe I don't know exactly what happened, but now I'm thinking that maybe I don't need to know. It doesn't matter what happened. I'm just going to be there and make sure he's okay. That's what friends are supposed to do."

Neil stared at him for a moment, expression feeling oddly somber. He'd never really cared before if he'd measured up to the standards of friendship anyone set, but at that moment he actually felt bad about it. Here Eric was, Eric who he treated like crap all the time, still driving him to the airport and not caring if he'd hurt one of his other friends. He truly was loyal to the end, and Neil for once didn't feel like he quite deserved it.

"Good luck with your job," Eric said. "Don't forget about us here, you hear? I expect lots of cool new stuff when you get a fancy paycheck. Stay out of trouble, okay?"

"Do I ever stay out of trouble?" Neil asked, and Eric offered him a watery smile. "I'll come back. I will," Neil promised. "Take care of him. He needs you."

Eric nodded and then went stock still with shock when Neil put his arms around him and hugged him. Neil wasn't really the hugging type by any means but it just felt like the right thing to do at that moment. "I'm holding you to that promise, McCormick… and if you decide not to sink your claws into that Eames guy, give him my number. He's fucking gorgeous."

Neil held Eric for a lot longer than he expected himself to, but he was surprisingly okay with it. He felt the boy's slender-fingered hands glide up his back almost cautiously, as if he couldn't believe it was actually happening, and then he felt Eric give a gentle squeeze back before they separated. Eric's eyeliner was running a little, but he tried to play it off like it wasn't.

"See you next time, then," Eric said.

"Someday soon, maybe you can come and join us in New York," Neil said, offering a small smile. "Right now, I doubt you'd come even if I asked though."

"I go where I'm needed."

"Take care, Preston."

"You too, McCormick."

Neil patted him on the shoulder, picked up his suitcase, and headed into the airport. When he looked back through the glass doors, he saw Eames talking to the boy for a moment before coming inside as well.

"What did he say to you?" Neil asked Eames when he caught up to him, tilting his chin in the direction of Eric.

"He asked for my number," Eames said, and his mouth curved into the teasing line that caused Neil to know it was a lie.

He wasn't sure when he'd gotten to know the shape of Eames's mouth quite so well.

"Seriously, what did he say?" Neil scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"The truth is that he told me to take care of you," Eames said as they handed their bags over to the woman at the desk. "He told me… that you might just be hurting more than you let on."

Neil stared at Eames, lips parting slightly, not sure what to say. Eames had noticed this weird hurting of Neil's, but he was hyper-observant. Neil didn't know when he himself had become quite so opaque.

Eames offered a gentle smile, and they headed off to their gate to wait. As they walked, Eames said softly to him, "I promised him that I would."

Neil was surprised by the fact that the statement didn't really need to be said. He felt safe enough with Eames to know the man would take care of him.

He just didn't feel safe enough with him to tell him about his past yet.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Neil woke up just as the plane was touching down to find his head pillowed against Eames's shoulder. He felt marginally better than he had waking up in Hutchinson but not by much.

"Feeling all right there, mate?" Eames asked softly, and Neil could've sworn he felt the man's lips brush against his forehead as he sat up.

"Yeah… fine," Neil mumbled, digging the heel of his hand into one eye. "We're already here?"

"We are. You slept pretty much the whole time."

Neil yawned and unbuckled his seatbelt (Eames must have buckled it for him), and stood, legs a little wobbly from sitting for so long. "So," he said as they grabbed their bags from the overhead compartment and followed the rest of the passengers down the pathway to the door, "we spend a few days in New York, and then we head off to France or whatever to start setting up shop?"

"That's my plan," Eames said. "I'll need some time to put a passport together for your dearest Wendy."

Neil nodded and continued his bee line for the baggage claim until he realized Eames had gone noticeably silent behind him. He turned back around to see the man's brow just slightly furrowed, a guarded way of looking uncomfortable. "What?" Neil asked.

"Just… I'm a bit curious about your relationship with Wendy. I mean, what exactly is it?"

It wasn't the first time people had been confused by them. There was a kind of closeness between them that many would mistake for romance, but then they would find that Neil's sexual escapades catered only to men and that Wendy wasn't shy about having a partner or two herself (male or female). Even someone as observant as Eames would probably find it a bit odd and difficult to put together. Neil and Wendy often shared the same bed, and Neil didn't mind kissing her goodbye even though he didn't exactly give off the impression that he was a touchy-feely guy.

At that moment, he wasn't entirely sure how to explain it because it had always been just a little bit beyond them both. He and Wendy had figured there was no reason to really think about it because they just lived the way they wanted. It worked for them. Here and now though Eames wanted an answer to at least that question, and since Neil wasn't opening up on anything else, he figured he might as well at least try to explain it. "Wendy's my soul mate," Neil told him, slowing down so that he and Eames could fall into step together. "She's my partner-in-crime, you know? I'd probably be in love with her or some shit if I wasn't queer, but Wendy and I are closer than that. We just have a connection, I guess."

Eames seemed to take a moment to let that sink in, processing it until he came to his own conclusions. "It's quite funny, isn't it?" Eames asked, smiling a little, and Neil didn't quite know what he meant until he added, "You claim to have no heart and yet you have a soul mate. You do find yourself capable of love."

Neil wasn't sure why that statement made him feel nervous and tingly.

"Have you ever been in love?" Eames asked.

Neil went completely still and for a long minute just stared at Eames. Eames looked a bit gleeful by the reaction. "You have, haven't you?" Eames asked.

Neil looked down at his feet, feeling suddenly ill again, and he didn't realize how long he'd been quiet and unmoving until Eames put his hand on his shoulder. Neil jolted away from the touch a little and looked up at him, and Eames's expression had lost its glee, turning concerned and sympathetic. "Hey… I didn't mean it like that," Eames said softly. "It's all right. Did it end badly then?"

"I don't know if I've ever been in love," Neil said softly, and his voice felt strained, like he'd forgotten how to use it. "I thought I was once… Now, I'm not so sure."

Eames squeezed Neil's shoulder a little. "What happened?"

Neil shook his head. "I don't know," he said, and he honestly didn't. He hadn't known where Coach had disappeared to after that summer, but he'd felt like his special prize right up until he reunited with Brian. Brian had tainted that memory, and now he wasn't sure how he felt about it. He didn't know why it felt connected to that awful night in Brighton Beach, why it made him feel queasy when he thought about it sometimes, why he couldn't just bottle it up and send it away like he usually did. Was the fact that he couldn't forget about it proof that he'd been in love? If not, then what did it mean?

Eames put his hand between Neil's shoulders, and for the second time that day helped him along to his destination. He stayed thankfully quiet about it, even though Neil knew he was curious. They gathered their bags and headed out to the curb, and as Eames was hailing a taxi, Neil asked softly, "Have you ever been in love before?"

Eames paused, biting down on his bottom lip for a moment. "Well… yes, I suppose so. I was in love once with a man I was in the military with. He was straight though, had a wife and a baby back home. It didn't change the way I felt, but it did change the way I approached these feelings… I didn't want to ruin his life just because of my feelings, so I never really told him."

"What happened to him?" Neil asked.

Eames turned and looked Neil in the eye, not a trace of deception in his own gaze, and he said, "He was shot in combat. He died in my arms."

Neil swallowed thickly, feeling like all of the air had just disappeared from his body.

He'd never seen anybody die before, and he certainly couldn't imagine it. There was something a little bit tragically romantic about it though, even though Neil thought it was wrong to think that way. He wondered what would happen if he died in Eames's arms. He wondered if Eames would cry and tell the story to the next rookie he took under his wing, tell him how Neil McCormick's blue eyes had glazed over as he'd stared up at Eames, blood on his mouth, happy that at least they got to see each other in their final moments.

It was a weird fantasy… but Neil was a bit less disturbed by his bloody demise than he was about the thrill of knowing Eames was currently the last thing he would want to see if he did pass on. He'd only known the man for a short period of time, and he'd come to mean quite a bit to the boy who didn't care about anyone but himself. Something was _happening_ to him, and he couldn't identify it any more than he could stop it.

Perhaps Neil was more capable of love than he'd first thought.

* * *

When they got back to the apartment, Wendy was waiting with a table set with Thai takeout. "You are a goddess among mortals," Eames said when he smelled it, and Neil kissed her lightly before leaving his bag by the door and going directly to the food.

"Well, I figured you guys would want something besides shitty airline food," Wendy said. "How was the fam, Neil?"

"Same as always," Neil said, already scooping noodles into his mouth, "Smothering."

"That bad, huh?"

He paused and then shrugged. He really wasn't sure how to describe that trip home.

"Well, you're back in the city now, so you don't have to worry so much about corn fields and boredom," Wendy said lightly. "I don't know if New York has missed you a lot, but I know I have. This new place is too big for one person to be in."

Neil smirked a little. "Well, we won't be sticking around this place for long. In a few days we've got another job. You want to take a little vacation?"

Wendy's face lit up. "A little vacation, huh? Where are we going?"

Neil shrugged. "Eh, nowhere really. Just Paris."

Wendy's mouth would have dropped to the floor if it wasn't connected to her jaw. "Neil McCormick, if you are lying to me right now, I will fucking punch you so hard your mother will feel it, you hear me?"

"I'm not lying," Neil assured her. "Eames is going to make you a passport and everything with a fake name so that they can't trace our criminal acts back to you."

Wendy jumped to her feet and very nearly squealed, wrapping her arms around Eames and giving him a big kiss. "Oh, my God, this is fucking amazing! I'm going to call work right now and tell them I won't be around for—how long are we going to be there?"

Eames shrugged one shoulder. "At least a few weeks, probably a little over a month depending on when I can get the architect and chemist there."

"Just quit your stupid job," Neil said. "You can travel the world with us. You won't need a job with the money I'm making."

Wendy's smile was as wide as the moon. "You're right. Fuck it! Fuck that job. I'm going to Paris!" She disappeared somewhere into the apartment, probably to go call and quit, and Neil resumed eating his meal. Eames was grinning over her reaction as he did the same.

"You know, it could be dangerous to bring her along with us for every job."

"Wendy's a tough chick. No one would mess with her," Neil said. "Besides, isn't it better to keep the things you care about close to your chest? I can protect her more easily if she's with me than if she was here in New York by herself, but of course she wouldn't need my protection anyway."

Some of the humor left Eames's face, and he looked back down at his meal. "All right," Eames said. "It's your call. You and she both best be as careful as you can though. Mind crime has some pretty high stakes, after all."

"Don't worry about it," Neil said. "I stay in control."

"Well, yes, I'd certainly hate to see you out of control."

Neil was pretty sure that was a jab at something he'd done (either his subconscious turning on itself or the crying fits in the bedroom), but he didn't call the man on it for now. He just let his gaze harden a little to let Eames know he'd caught that little statement.

Eames sighed and said, "I'm not trying to insult you. I'm just wondering if it's just Wendy your protecting, or if you're protecting the things Wendy knows about you."

"You're just jealous because she knows and you don't," Neil huffed.

"I'm not jealous of anyone," Eames replied. "I've told you before though that secrets are what we deal in. I know and you should be starting to know just how much secrets are worth and the destruction they can cause. As careful as we are, there is always room for error in this business. No one is ever one hundred percent safe. I just need you to remember that."

"I remember," Neil said, rolling his eyes. "Stop worrying so much."

"You can never worry too much."

* * *

Neil spent the next two days looking up whatever information he could find on their mark, a Seymour Bell who was allegedly part of a criminal organization running throughout Europe. They'd been hired by some higher-ups in the government to pick his brain and see if they could find the location of their hideout. There wasn't much Neil could find out while still in New York, but he did find a couple of articles that he'd been mentioned in when searching through some older newspapers. The man had been arrested on quite a few occasions for many numbers of things—drug possession, domestic violence, theft. He'd been accused of just about every crime in the book, but the evidence to his crimes was surprisingly absent, thus allowing him to go free almost every time. Odds were, this criminal organization he worked for was helping clean up the messes he made.

In his photograph, Seymour had a sneer on his face and rings in his nose and eyebrows. He was an ugly son of a bitch, Neil thought, looked almost to be in his forties even though he was only twenty-seven years old. He dressed a bit like the kids Neil and Eric had hung out with back at home though, and Neil made a mental note to pack some of his regular clothes in case he needed to go undercover in this guy's circle.

When he wasn't looking up information on Bell, he was actually looking through some beginner French books and listening to audio tapes. It was frighteningly dull, but if he was going to be overseas, he figured he might want to have at least the most basic grasp on the language. In the end it would just make things easier. He and Wendy would practice together, learning basic phrases and the occasional curse word when it got too boring.

At night, Eames would sleep in Neil's bed. Neil had figured Eames had gotten sex with him out of his system, and that was why he'd slept on the couch in Hutchinson, but apparently it was more out of respect for his mother's home. When Neil had looked at him like he was insane the night he'd crawled between the sheets, Eames had kissed him right between the eyebrows and gone to sleep. Neil was confused, but it did feel nice to have a warm body next to him in the morning.

By the third day, they were packing up to head overseas, preparing for the long flight with their French tapes and portable cassette players, plenty of books and magazines, and comfy pillows in their carry-ons. Eames had gotten Wendy a passport under the name of Bonnie Fairchild (which she had suggested herself because it sounded cool), and all three of them had first class seats.

Neil put on his Arthur-suit and slicked his hair back (it looked much nicer slicked back now that it had been cut), and Wendy had slid into her Vivienne Westwood clothes she'd bought the night of his first paycheck, allowing herself to look professional but with the punk-kid flair she'd always loved to sport. She even painted her lips ruby red, not caring that they were going to be sitting around for a long time. She had every intention of looking gorgeous and presentable should anything interesting befall them.

"I don't want to stick out like a sore thumb between you two yuppies and your suits," she had said.

Eames had dressed in a navy suit with a pin-striped white shirt and patterned tie and was looking pretty fucking dapper if Neil did say so himself. It made Neil want to rumple him up in the bathroom before take-off.

They all got their cigarette breaks in at the front doors to the airport, chatting about nothing in particular. Wendy kept practicing her French on Eames (who apparently spoke it fluently among other languages), and Eames would correct her. Admittedly, Wendy had more of a knack for it than Neil ever could.

Neil mostly just watched Eames for the entirety of the conversation, studied the way his lips formed around words. Normally he didn't give a shit about things like that, but when it came to someone like Eames, who was always reading people and knew how to burrow his own tells deep down inside himself, it was all about looking for the subtleties.

Plus, Neil was pretty sure he was becoming infatuated with the man, though he wasn't sure if it was because he was a really good bed partner or if it was because he was a really good escape route from the monotony of his current situation.

They'd had sex that morning, lazy and slow, Neil cramming his fingers into Eames's mouth as he fucked the man open. Neil had trailed kisses down his spine and left bruises on his hips and Eames had come all over the sheets without even having to touch himself (and Neil had taken a particularly large amount of pride from that). When they'd finished fucking though, they had just laid there for a while, Eames touching him here or there, pressing a kiss to a shoulder or a hinge of his jaw or a corner of his mouth. Neil normally found these little brushes of affection annoying and pointless, but when Eames did it… well, fuck, maybe he was just becoming more stupidly sentimental or maybe Eames was just really, really good at cuddling.

Neil wasn't about to let Eames sweep him up in that affection though. He couldn't relinquish that much control to him no matter how good it felt. He gripped the PASIV device firmly in his fist as he turned his eyes away from Eames's face before the man noticed him staring.

He told Eames that he stayed in control, and he meant it. Staying in control meant that he was at the top of the chain of command, and being at the top of the chain meant that he was at his safest.

He just hoped that he wouldn't inevitably lose it even if he was holding on with both hands. He really didn't know what he would do if that was to happen again, but he had a feeling it wouldn't be pretty.

After all, last time he'd wound up waking up on the street without his coat and covered in blood.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Paris was incredible. That was one thing Neil was sure of.

He hadn't been entirely convinced he would find the appeal in it because he wasn't quite the romantic that the tourists were, but there was just something about the old architecture crammed amongst the hills that looked absolutely beautiful. It was nothing like New York and nothing like Hutchinson, but it seemed to have some of the good things from both. It didn't feel so much like a new city as it did a completely different world where the people moved more leisurely and the sky looked just a little bit bluer. Maybe Neil had just needed a change of scenery.

Wendy was gaping with the same amount of wonder as Neil, falling into step next to him and holding onto his hand. "You'd better take me to the Eiffel Tower, you ass," she said, grinning. Neil grinned back at her and assured her that he would and made a mental note to fit that into his schedule somehow. He wrapped his arm around her in a loose hug and kissed her hair.

"What say you that we go drop our things off at the hotel and explore a bit for the day?" Eames offered. "I've been here a million times. I know all the best places."

He didn't have to convince them. They hurried off to their hotel, an absolutely beautiful, expensive place, and dropped their things inside. Neil discovered that Eames's room was a connected suite to his and Wendy's, and he wondered how many of his nights he'd be spending with the man (or if Eames had gotten the rooms specifically for that reason).

The first thing they did was stop at a tiny café squeezed in between a flower shop and a clothing store and that was where Neil had probably the absolute best cup of coffee he'd ever tasted, as well as his very first scone. Eames watched him curiously as he and Wendy tried their items and then let their eyes bug out in amazement. Neil sort of wanted to melt like chocolate on a hot day at Eames's amused smile.

After their meal, they took off into the city. Wendy wanted to go into just about every shop. Neil was glad to see her so excited, so he of course let her, though he hung back a bit, sauntering along in step with Eames and sharing a cigarette.

"So, what do you think of Paris so far? It's not too artsy for you, is it?" Eames asked.

"It's beautiful," Neil said honestly. "I feel like I'm a completely different person here."

"Should I just call you Arthur when we're in Paris then?"

Neil looked at him, smiling, and said, "Maybe."

Eames smirked and leaned in close, practically growling into Neil's ear, dragging out the r's, " _Arthur_." Neil smacked him on the arm, and Eames just laughed. "Oh, I'm sorry, is my voice too sexy for you, darling?"

"Not at all. You sound fucking stupid," Neil replied, and Eames grasped his chest in mock offense.

"Guys!" Wendy shouted, and when Neil looked up, she had her arms akimbo and this knowing expression on her face that made him feel embarrassed, like he'd gotten caught doing something unsavory. "You two lovebirds want to stop whispering in each other's ears for a minute? Look! It's the tower!"

Surely enough there it was, standing tall just like a skyscraper from New York but unlike any building Neil had ever seen. Neil took a few minutes to just stare at it in wonder. "Wow," he said softly.

"You should see it at night," Eames said and led the way towards it. There were quite a few people already there, so they ended up having to wait around for what felt like an eternity, but eventually they did get to go up into the tower. Neil had never really appreciated city skylines or anything about tourist attractions, but there was definitely something about this view that stirred him. He could see why people liked to get married in Paris, why it was called the city of love.

"Have you ever been here before with someone else?" Neil asked Eames softly.

"I've only been here alone," Eames said. "It sort of lacks a little splendor though when you're by yourself and surrounded by couples." Neil looked over at Wendy who appeared to be flirting with a man who had come by himself. She was still shaking a little from the excitement of it all.

"Can I ask you a question?" Eames asked.

Neil turned back to him, hesitating before he nodded.

"Are we dating?" Eames asked. "I mean… I know we've had sex, and I know we've shared some meals together, and I've met your mother, so… I just uh…"

Neil's mouth fell open because Eames was blushing. Eames was actually _blushing_ , and it was the most beautiful thing Neil had ever seen. No one had ever approached a relationship with Neil quite so innocently, and for some reason that made him want to cry. Instead though he just reached out and glided the pad of his thumb across Eames's bottom lip, biting down on his own bottom lip, and he said, "I don't know… are we? I've never dated anyone before."

Eames's gaze softened. "I think we might be dating," he said, tilting his head so that his cheek was resting in Neil's palm. "I think I'd quite like that…"

"Really," Neil said, voice barely above a whisper. He had forgotten that anyone else was even there with them. "You'd quite like that, hm? Why's that, Mr. Eames?"

"If I'm being completely honest, I don't quite know," Eames said, reaching up and wrapping his hand around Neil's. "You're not quite my type, and you can be a right git sometimes, and you seem a little emotionally unavailable on occasion, but I can't get you out of my brain. You're just so brilliant and fascinating in every way."

"I'm damaged," Neil said before he could stop himself.

"We all are a little," Eames said, "but I still think I might be falling in love with you."

Neil apparently did have a heart because in that moment it absolutely stopped. "You're full of shit," Neil said, but he didn't sound angry so much as disbelieving. "You barely know me."

"I don't care," Eames said. "I might practice in deception, but I'm honest with my feelings… and I haven't felt quite like this in a long time, so… take it or leave it. I understand if you don't feel the same way, and I won't be angry with you. I just thought I'd let you know where I stand right now, yeah?"

Neil had never been so afraid in his entire life, but at the moment he couldn't get his feet to move even an inch. After what felt like an hour (though it had probably only been a minute at the most), he looked down at his feet and shook his head. "I don't know what to say…" he said quietly. "No one's ever told me that before… at least, no one has and looked at me like that…"

"It's fine if you don't know right now. Even if you refuse me, I won't abandon you. I won't let any romantic feelings get in the way of how much I like you platonically, so… it's fine. It's all fine, yeah? Maybe it would have been better if I hadn't said anything."

Neil looked out at the skyline, body tilted towards Eames rather than away from it, and he said the only thing he could think to say. "I don't," he said. "I don't love you." It hurt even to say. "I don't know how to love anyone… but I don't even know how to date anyone, so… maybe just… I don't know… work our way up?"

Eames gave a slightly pained smile. "I think we can do that… and any time you want out, you can just tell me… not that I'm hoping you'll back out or anything. I just wanted you to be sure that you don't have to feel _obligated_ —"

Neil rolled his eyes and kissed Eames if only to shut him up.

"I get it," he said. "Relax."

Eames exhaled slowly and nodded, a weird, goofy grin on his face. On anyone else, the face would look stupid, but Eames managed to make it charming. Neil leaned his head against Eames's shoulder and couldn't help but feel oddly warm inside when the man wrapped his arm around him and just held him.

* * *

It took Eames two days to find people to join them for the job. The chemist, Sasha, was flying in from Russia, but their architect was actually right there in Paris. Her name was Mal, and as soon as Neil met her, he knew that if he hadn't been queer he would have been obsessed with her.

Mal was absolutely beautiful and her gaze seemed endless, as if the city of Paris had decided to become personified in her. Her brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, but the shorter curls had already fallen out, leaving ringlets around her face. She spoke with an accent that Neil thought was much nicer than his own and made everything she said sound far more interesting, and she had long fingers and chilly palms. Neil was absolutely fascinated by her.

Apparently her father had invented the PASIV device. Next to him, no one knew it better than Mal, despite the fact that she was just a normal college student. She and Eames had apparently met right after he'd left the army. He'd been on the run for six days without rest and she'd found him collapsed in the street. She had taken him back to her apartment and nursed him back to health. She and her father disapproved with what the army was using the PASIV for and though she wasn't necessarily a fan of what Eames and Neil were doing with it either, she still felt it was a better use of the device than teaching soldiers not to care about killing people. Most of the time the secrets they stole were for the good of the world, after all.

"When my father invented the PASIV," Mal explained as they set up shop in an old, abandoned building, "he did so with the purpose of really exploring the human mind. He wanted to see how deep the subconscious could go and how it manifested inside of people. After all, we never remember everything from our dreams, but if we're hooked up to the PASIV we can. I think it'll do wonders for psychology and psychiatry in the future."

"So you've been studying this kind of stuff for a while?" Neil asked. "What's it mean if your subconscious turns on you? Hypothetically."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, I don't know for sure… I haven't actually experienced that, though my father has taken in a test subject or two with a mild version of that. If I'm remembering correctly, they had suffered from a past trauma and it caused them to have a sort of disconnection from themselves. Their subconscious didn't recognize them because they wouldn't accept what had happened to them."

Neil swallowed and watched Eames unpacking across the room rather than look at her. "What kind of trauma?"

"One woman lost her daughter in a car accident. She blamed herself for the child's death. The other had nearly drowned as a child."

He nodded, still avoiding her gaze.

"What happened to you, then?" she asked. "We are, after all, talking about you, aren't we? I can tell by the way you won't look at me."

Neil turned his eyes back on her, expression guilty. "I didn't suffer any real trauma," he said. "Maybe there's just something wrong with my brain."

"Perhaps," Mal said, tilting her head slightly, "but I'd say it's more likely that something affected you more than you're willing to admit to. Maybe more than one thing."

"It hasn't attacked me as much since I've been practicing," Neil told her, pulling his legs up into the chair with him and wrapping his arms around them. "They can't always get to me through the walls… the projections, that is."

Mal nodded curiously. "Well," she said, "why don't you show me? It'd be easier for me to help if I knew for sure what I was dealing with."

"I never said I needed any help."

"No, not with words," Mal said, smiling warmly.

Neil was hesitant, but he nodded, following her over to where the PASIV device was sitting.

"Monsieur Eames," Mal called over. "Arthur and I are going under for a bit."

Eames's expression looked a little unsure but he waved it off and went back to whatever he was doing. Neil settled into a chair with a reclined back and let Mal slide the needle into his arm. "Don't worry, Arthur," she said softly. "Anything that might be down there is between you and me. I'll only tell Eames if you tell me it's all right, okay?"

Neil just stared back at her until the plunger was depressed on the PASIV, sending him off into darkness before he opened his eyes to a beautiful French city.

Mal was there next to him, smiling. "What do you think of my city?" she asked.

"It's amazing," Neil said, stunned. "I didn't know you could put in this much detail in a dream."

Mal shrugged one shoulder, playing coy. "Admittedly, I am showing off a little bit right now. This is my favorite city I've constructed, though I have adapted it to the maze I've already shown you that we'll be using for the job. It reminds me of home but has all of the things I always wanted there in reality. Oh."

Neil turned around when he realized she was looking at something, and he was terrified to see Brian standing there in the middle of the street, gaze empty and nose bloodied.

"A friend of yours?" Mal asked, even though Neil knew she knew that wasn't the case.

"Not exactly," Neil mumbled. "I'm… not sure why he's here. He's never shown up like this before. Um… just uh… just leave him alone."

"Surely he's here for a reason," Mal said. "He doesn't seem like an ordinary projection to me. There's too much detail."

"He's nobody, Mal, forget it," Neil said, a little more desperately.

Mal looked at Neil and then approached the projection of Brian. "Don't," Neil breathed, trying to give chase after her only to find himself stuck when someone grabbed his arm.

"Shh, angel."

Neil jerked his body away from the whisper in his ear, trying to free his wrist from the man's grasp. His projections had never come after him so quickly before, not even in the dream with Eames, and he wondered just what had gone so wrong right away… but what if Mal was right? What if these people who kept appearing like this weren't projections at all? What if they were something else manifesting directly out of the darkest part of his subconscious, fueled by an emotion he didn't want to admit to or take credit for? These hands that held onto him didn't seem to have faces or bodies, constructed only because of Brian's presence…

Neil felt _guilty_.

On the wall behind Neil, a little voice was crying and pounding on the brick. "Let me out! Let me out! Please!" a small voice screamed.

Mal looked back at Neil, expression concerned, and while she had her back turned, Brian whipped out an aluminum baseball bat and swung, cracking her neck with it and sending her to the ground. Neil screamed out her name, but now there were hands seeming to come from everywhere, grabbing him by his arms and legs and neck and face and chest and stomach and groin.

Brian marched up to Neil, sneering, and he said, "You _liked_ it."

Neil couldn't punch him to shut him up, and he couldn't wake himself up. All he could do was stare at the boy in shame, mouth hanging open with no words to say.

"Slut knows what's coming next," a voice behind him said.

It started to rain. The water came down in lazy, straight sheets, just like out of a showerhead, and as it pooled on Mal's crumbling street, blood mixed into the water. Buildings started to topple, all of its beauty immediately tarnished as it fell to ruin. Neil was pushed to the ground, half-drowning in a puddle. Mal and all of her perfection in the building of cities had made the place open enough to make it last should the dreamer be killed, and Neil just wished in that moment that she'd been more terrible at her job.

He squeezed his eyes shut as chunks of concrete, brick, and steel tumbled around him like hail, and he screamed.

He awoke to find someone shaking him, and he was still shouting, couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. "Arthur, please, Arthur—"

Neil shoved himself away from the arms holding him, stumbling backwards into a corner, and he finally managed to open his eyes and see Eames and Mal both crouched where he had fallen out of the chair and vomited. His arm was bleeding where he'd ripped the needle out of the skin.

"I have to build the mazes," he stammered, breathless, and then he collapsed.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Neil awoke to the sound of voices. He started to open his eyes when he realized that it was Eames and Mal and that they were talking about him, so he feigned sleep and listened.

"I knew it was a bad idea for you to go down there," Eames said.

"I'm just trying to help him, Eames."

"I know that, Mal, I do. I've been trying to help him as well, but he doesn't exactly want to be helped." There was a beat of silence, and then Eames added, "What exactly happened down there?"

"I'm not going to just betray his trust like that, Eames. I'm not telling you," Mal scoffed. "There is something down there that doesn't want to be found though… or perhaps it does, but he doesn't want us to find it. What do you suppose he meant when he said he had to make the mazes? Do his projections not follow him through his designs? That's a bit bizarre, don't you think? It's almost like his subconscious is completely disconnected from his waking mind."

"You're changing the subject," Eames said flatly.

"Well, dearest Eames, you've been in his dreams. You know what his projections are capable of. I see no reason as to why my story would be relevant." Neil could hear the condescending smile in the statement. He could check another thing off on the list as to why he liked Mal.

"I wasn't kicked out nearly as quickly as you were, and it was his first time dreaming. It's getting worse, isn't it?"

"Eames—"

"I should have checked on it myself. He seemed like he was doing so much better on the surface, so I just thought that… I thought everything would be fine. I thought maybe he was just in a bad place when we met, and that maybe things would get better inside if they got better on the outside."

"Eames," Mal chided gently, "trauma isn't just fixed by a snap of the fingers and a hoping for the best. Something very, very terrible must have happened to him in the past that he can't let go of."

"I know," Eames sighed. "He won't tell me what it was. He won't even admit that there's anything wrong. What am I supposed to do? He's bloody brilliant at the work, and he wants it so much… but I've never seen projections act so viciously, especially not towards their own mind."

"I don't know if they could quite be considered projections, if I'm being honest," Mal said. "Yes, he most certainly has some violent projections, but the ones leading the chase are particularly so… I feel like they're extremely powerful manifestations. I can't guarantee they wouldn't burst through the walls of a dream even if someone else was filling the dream with their subconscious. I can't help but worry about what might happen if another tragedy strikes. He might just fall completely apart, Eames. People can't handle that kind of stress."

"So what am I supposed to do? Keep him from dreaming? Even if I did fire him from this job, you know he wouldn't stop. You know how impossible it is not to keep doing it after you've done it once. When you can't dream naturally anymore… There's just nothing quite like building and wandering around inside your own head, lucid and all powerful… and he's got so much talent for it, Mal. He automatically knew how to construct mazes, complicated ones. It takes months for people to do that effectively, some even years."

"Yes, but is it worth the cost of his mind?" Mal asked. "What if his subconscious starts to deteriorate because of the strength of these projections? Are you willing to lose him, Eames?"

There was no response from Eames for several minutes.

"So, what…" Eames said softly. "I just tell him to leave? I tell him he can't do this anymore?"

"Caring about someone doesn't mean never being able to tell them no, love," Mal said. "He can still dream… but he has some demons to face first. He can stay on for this job since he doesn't have to go under, but either you help him find a way to deal with this, or you let him know that it can't happen again. Eames… he's a danger to himself in this state. If that sedative had been a little stronger, he might have been sent to Limbo."

More silence.

Neil did his best not to squeeze the armrests of the chair he was reclining in. Here he had thought that, despite the hiccup between him and Brian in Kansas, everything was finally turning around. He knew going under with Mal had been a bad idea, and now he knew why. She was ripping the rug out from under him and leaving him stranded… and the worst part was that he couldn't even be angry at her for it because it was his fault.

"Mal…" Eames said. "What if telling him he can't keep working this way is that tragedy that sends him over the edge? You don't understand… he was working for minimum wage at a sandwich place, living in this tiny apartment in an unsafe area, and he didn't even have a decent coat. The night I met him he was nearly freezing to death right before my eyes. His fucking lips had started to turn blue… and he's sold his body on occasion to make a little extra. I can't even imagine how difficult it must have been…

"This… this is his _chance_. This is everything he could want. This is something that pays well, something that he's good at, and it's certainly a better option than being a prostitute, don't you think? I can't tell him that he can't work in this business anymore. I won't. I'm going to help him… somehow…"

"I'll do anything that I can to help you, Eames," Mal said. "He's a good kid."

Neil didn't open his eyes until he was sure they had walked off into the other room, listening as their footsteps retreated and a door shut softly. He sat up, looking around the empty space, finding that they'd cleaned up the mess he'd made. The sunlight was lilting softly in through the lacy curtains.

He got to his feet, wobbled a little, and steadied himself. He found his coat somewhere off to the side and dug out his cigarettes, lighting the tip of one, and just standing there, staring at the little speckles of dust floating about in the beams of light. He sniffed, nose clogged like he'd been crying even though he hadn't been, and then he sighed, smoke momentarily obscuring his vision.

Eames wanted to help him and, despite apprehension, wasn't giving up on him, but Neil couldn't help but wonder how long that would last. Eames was already delusional, thinking he was falling in love with Neil, and that was the real reason why he didn't just send the boy away. Neil knew that had to be true because people weren't just selfless about things like this. If Neil's subconscious couldn't be fixed, he knew that Eames would drop him as soon as he got bored.

In the end, everyone moved on to somewhere and someone else, and Neil was apparently not that tolerable. The only one who'd stuck with him through it all was Wendy.

He was overcome with the desire to see her then, so he slid into his coat and quietly left the building, walking back to the hotel and letting himself into their room. She was asleep on the bed, probably jet lagged or (if the new bags in the corner were any indication) all shopped out. Neil slid out of his coat, his blazer, his tie, his belt, and his shoes, and he crawled onto the bed with her. She subconsciously rolled towards him, and he sank into the warmth of her arms, cheek pressed softly against the pillow of her breast.

* * *

Even if Neil had slept through Mal's and Eames's conversation, he still would have known it had taken place. They were much more awkward around each other as they waited on the other to say something. No one had said a damned thing to Neil about the conversation, and he was beginning to suspect that no one was going to until after the job.

Neil spent most of his time talking with Sasha, the chemist, because of it. She was a shockingly tall woman (almost six feet), with sharp and angular features. She was striking in a way and a little frightening, but it was sort of what Neil liked about her. She told him stories about previous jobs, ones so insane they sounded like they came straight out of Neil and Wendy's made-up stories, and when they took their breaks to clear their heads, she taught him how to properly shoot a gun.

"You've got naturally good aim," she told him one afternoon. "Steady eyes. Even though you've only been practicing for about a week, I wouldn't want to be the asshole to piss you off." Neil couldn't help but like the feel of the cold steel in his hands and the power it represented. It certainly made him feel safer, in any sense. Wendy had been telling him that he needed to learn how to use a firearm since they'd gotten to New York. She apparently had taken a class on it herself. He was proud of himself.

As for his relationship with Eames, it didn't suffer too much from the conversation, mostly because Eames didn't know he'd heard it. Neil was conflicted over Eames's supposed feelings for him and just how Eames intended to "help" him, but the sex was entirely too good to just pass up. Maybe it was just the 'romance' that wafted through the Parisian air that made it more desirable, or maybe the view out the window really was that titillating. Neil didn't know, but either way, he was in Eames's bed at night after Wendy went to sleep. He would push Eames down onto the bed and fuck him, or he'd let the man look up at him while he rode him, mouth falling open and hair falling into his eyes. He'd let Eames finger him until he came and then fuck him until he came a second time, or he'd shove Eames against the wall and take him. He'd whine when Eames rubbed their cocks against each other's, holding them both in his large hand as he jerked them off, and he'd smirk when Eames would suck him off and pop off just in time for Neil to come all over his face.

There were two things Neil never did though. He never fucked Eames in the bathroom, and he never sucked his cock. After sex was done, Neil would always lay on his stomach so that he wouldn't have to stare up at the ceiling like he had so many summers ago in the one bedroom forever burned into his mind. Eames would rub his back gently, tracing the planes of it with the pads of his fingertips as if to memorize it, and Neil would usually fall asleep to the feel of it.

When he woke up during the night, Eames was usually pressed up against him, keeping Neil wrapped in his arms like he was protecting him from monsters in the dark. Neil would roll around so that his nose was pressed into Eames's chest hair, and he'd breathe in the mixture of their scents and think Eames smelled nothing like Coach.

In the mornings, Eames was usually gone, but he'd return within the hour with breakfast for everyone. Wendy, by this point, had nothing but wonderful things to say about the man and Neil wanted very much to like him as much as she did… but every time he started to think that he did like him that much, that maybe he even liked him _more_ than that, he would think of what Eames had said and remind himself that all of this would ultimately lead to disappointment.

He still quite liked Mal and was perfectly friendly to her, but at the same time he felt like he was waiting on her to tell him something, for her to spill the beans on the state of his subconscious, for her to ask what had happened to him that caused a bloody-nosed kid to come after her with a baseball bat.

Neil found that things got a lot easier when he threw himself into his work. The tools Eames had introduced him to really did make things easier (easier than trying to find him and suck his dick anyway), and Neil was quite happy to bury himself in the details of someone else's life rather than his own. By the end of the second week of work, it was really a wonder Neil hadn't stumbled upon the criminal hideout on his own because he was pretty sure he knew almost everything about Seymour Bell. He had thick file folders concerning his childhood, all the places he'd lived and the schools he'd attended (and been kicked out of), the criminal record. Hell, he'd gotten so much information that he even knew what his favorite drink to order from the coffee shop was (and that he'd always reward himself with one on Friday) and that he was always hitting on the woman behind the counter who'd serve it to him (she wasn't even remotely interested and frankly a little creeped out by him).

He'd even gone through the effort to take this overwhelming deluge of information and organize it, outlining it in a way that the entire team could study and understand within a night, highlighting important parts with different colors over what important thing it was relevant to. He'd never worked so hard in his life on something so tedious, but he found that the busy work was good for his head. He felt more at ease when he was focused on it, and no exhaustion came from finishing it. No, when Sasha and Mal and Eames stared at the well-structured paperwork and looked up at him in awe, he felt nothing but pride.

Even Wendy was impressed.

"Honestly, Neil," she said that evening over dinner and a game of cards (Eames was staying late to do a test run of Mal's maze so they were alone), "I had no idea you were so smart."

"Very funny," Neil said flatly, taking another bite of his meal before asking if she had any threes.

"I'm serious," she said, laughing a little. "It's not that I didn't know you were smart, Neil. I mean, yeah, you didn't give a fuck about school, but I've always known you were really smart. I'm just saying that this is like… a whole new level of smart. I can't even begin to comprehend the amount of detail you went into on this job, and you did it in such a short amount of time."

Neil shrugged. "It wasn't that hard. I just… did it."

"I know," Wendy said, "and that's the incredible thing, you know? You're really, really good at this. Maybe you've found your destiny or something. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm really proud of you, and I'm really happy for you."

Neil wanted to follow that up with a snarky comment, but there was something so sweet in Wendy's expression that he couldn't bring himself to. "Thanks," he said instead and offered her a genuine smile. "I couldn't have done it without you."

Wendy snorted. "How did I help?"

"If you hadn't gotten me the job at the sub shop, I never would've met Eames on the way home, so… you're the real reason I got this work."

She grinned, unable to help herself. "Well, I suppose you'll just have to keep buying me presents with your paychecks, won't you?"

"I'll buy you an island," Neil told her, sipping at the wine they'd been having with their food, "and you can be queen of the island."

"Oh, really? And what would the name of the island be?"

"Never-Never land."

She popped him playfully on the head. "Look at you, Neil McCormick. So sophisticated you're making literature jokes."

Neil laughed, ducking his head a little."Okay, fine. It can be Wendy Island… or Isla de Wendy or something like that. I'll build you a castle."

"A castle would be cool," Wendy said, leaning her chin onto the heel of her hand, "but I think what I'd really like is just to travel around the world, just you and me, like we always thought we might do. I'll get those cool Indian tattoos all over my body, and we can get real Japanese sushi, and when winter hits stateside we'll go somewhere warm like Australia or something and just lay out on the beach."

"That sounds like a good idea," Neil agreed. "You and me, we'll have a house on every continent, and we can go anywhere we feel like whenever we want. Mom and Eric can come too. Sometimes."

Wendy put her cards down and reached across the table to take Neil's hand. Her fingers were warm where they wrapped around his, and he wanted to hang onto that hand forever.

 _Soul mates_ , he thought, and never before had that been truer.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Neil's information gathering and filing apparently made everyone else's jobs much easier. They weren't only on schedule, but ahead of it at this point, and everyone was feeling the buzz of a job going better than expected.

Honestly, Neil figured someone should have expected something to go horribly wrong.

The day before the job was to take place, Mal had a terrible reaction to one of Sasha's somnacin mixtures, leaving her with a fever and weakness in her limbs. Sasha apologized and apologized though Mal told her that it just happened sometimes (somnacin was a very tricky drug to put together), but none of Sasha's antidote mixtures seemed to have any effect, and Mal couldn't build in the fuzzy state of mind that she was in.

They would either have to wait and conduct the extraction at a later date when she had recovered, or they would have to do it without her… and it didn't look like they would have any other opportunities.

"What are we going to do?" Sasha asked Eames. They were all standing in Mal's apartment, said woman laid out in bed, resting. She'd felt too tired to walk home on her own, so they'd all ended up here. "Could we find another architect that can learn the layouts and the details in a few _hours_? Eames, you're already extracting, and you've got enough on your mind, and I'm shit for building."

Neil noticed the air in the room grew awkward, and he realized that Eames and Mal just might have told Sasha about his subconscious issues. Still, he piped up, "I'll do it."

They turned their eyes on him, and he knew that everyone knew about his problem. He straightened his back and exhaled and said, "I can do it, all right? We'll have to work faster, maybe, but I can build the mazes. Mal's already shown me the maze, and I can edit it a little if I have to. Besides, it'll be his projections walking around in there, not mine, right?"

The expressions in the room turned apprehensive.

"Look, it's either me or nobody. No one's going to be able to construct the maze in that amount of detail in a few hours, and that's provided if we can even find someone to do it that lives in the city. There isn't anyone else. Either I do it, or we have to pack up and cut our losses and hope that the guys who hired us don't hunt us down with guns."

Eames sighed and looked at the women. "He's right."

"I know he is," Sasha said. "Mal?"

Mal bit down on her bottom lip for a moment before soberly saying, "Do it. You'll have to work fast, but I think it can be done. You'd best go in there prepared to fight. Even if Arthur's subconscious doesn't break through, Bell's is bound to be less than friendly. I can take Arthur's place and keep watch and administer the kick."

From that point, there was nothing to be done but go back to the hotel and wait for tomorrow morning. Neil couldn't help but notice that on the entire cab drive back, Eames was silent.

* * *

Neil didn't sleep much that night, instead sitting up in bed with Wendy and looking over Mal's original plans. "I don't understand why it's such a big deal that you're doing it now," Wendy said, snuggling close to him. "You seem so gloomy about it."

"Yeah, well the team doesn't have that much faith in me for this part, honestly," Neil admitted, not looking up from the blueprints.

"Why? I thought you were a natural."

"Turns out my subconscious is not the most fun place to be," Neil said.

Wendy was momentarily silent. Then, she said, "What happens down there?"

"Some unwelcome guests occasionally come and ruin the party, I guess," Neil mumbled.

"Like who?"

"You know who, Wendy," Neil said softly. He knew she didn't know everyone, but he was sure she'd get the gist. "It's just hard for me to keep it contained… It's such a huge part of me… you know?"

"I know," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Maybe it's time to face down that part of you, let it go. You've got this whole new start. There's no need to keep dwelling on the past."

"It's not that simple though… I just… I guess I don't really know how to face it because I don't really know how I feel about it anymore… how I'm _supposed_ to feel about it even… I feel like I've got all of my wires crossed and tangled and shit, can't get everything together."

"I didn't know you were so conflicted about it. What changed?"

Neil set down the plans and looked at her, her eyes large and honest. Wendy. His Wendy whom he could trust with anything.

"A few months ago, or whatever, a little after I moved to New York, Eric sent me a postcard, talking about this kid named Brian who had been looking for me. Brian was convinced that he and I had been abducted by aliens."

Wendy raised an eyebrow.

"We used to play on the same baseball team, and that summer he lost hours of his memory," Neil said softly, "but he was getting bits and pieces in dreams, you know?... and he remembered me. He wanted me to help him figure up what happened in that missing time."

Wendy's expression turned grave as she realized what had taken place. "Oh, my God," she whispered.

Neil nodded, looking away. "When I went home for Christmas, I told him the truth. I think he'd pretty much figured it out already, but we went to Coach's house, and I told him everything that happened… and he just… started _crying_ … He screamed a little, but mostly he just laid there in my lap and cried… and I didn't know what to do. I'd thought that summer was… well, I mean, you know what I thought, but when he started to sob like that, I started to think that I was messed up somehow, that I'd made a mistake… I recognized this fucking crushing sadness on his face and in his shoulders. I haven't been able to place where I'd seen it, but I wanted to make him feel better, to tell him that it was over now and that everything was all right… but I couldn't because I knew it was a lie."

Wendy wrapped her arms around him, and Neil buried his face into her hair. "Something about Brian, Wendy… I can't let it go because of him. I went and saw him when I went back to Hutchinson, but well… it ended badly…"

"Neil… what happened isn't your fault. You were just a kid."

"I played my part in it, Wendy," he murmured. "I played my part."

He didn't talk about it anymore after that, and Wendy thankfully didn't ask any questions. He got up and went into the bathroom to splash some water on his face, and he wondered if he should have told her about what had happened to him the night before he'd left to meet Brian for the first time. Staring at his reflection, he recalled the subway ride home, shivering from the cold since his coat had been left hanging on that man's coat rack, blood caked to his face and staining his shirt. It had been really late, so the train was pretty much empty, but he remembered there was a man at the end of the car that didn't even think to ask Neil if he was all right. No one cared.

He had trudged up the stairs, aching and sore, and opened the door as quietly as possible because Wendy was asleep. She had looked so innocent and peaceful in her bed, curled up and warm and safe. For a moment he had wanted to climb into bed with her and hide away from that night, but instead he just went into the bathroom and took off all of his ruined clothes. That night he could feel dried come in his underwear that wasn't his, could already see dark and ugly bruises forming all over his skin. He had crouched down in the corner and taken a moment to breathe, feeling like hours had passed by in minutes or that perhaps time had stopped altogether.

On the top of the hamper was the shirt he'd worn the day he'd left for New York. He had taken it into his hands and buried his nose into it, trying to smell Hutchinson and who he used to be. He knew though… after what had happened, everything had changed… He couldn't go back to who he was before. All he could do was cling to that smell.

And he cried.

He had cleaned the blood off of himself, changed, and thrown he bloody clothes in a dumpster within the next hour or so, and he left for the airport before Wendy woke up so he wouldn't have to explain himself. He'd sat for probably over an hour, just waiting for his flight, gazing off into some unknown distance, with the man's words still echoing in his ears. He couldn't even really remember the man's face and had been disturbed by the way the features he'd forgotten had been mentally replaced with familiar ones. With Coach's.

The summer with Coach, and that night in Brighton Beach were forever connected in his mind, and it wasn't like he was stupid enough to not know why… but to admit to one would be to admit to the other, and he didn't want to think about either of them.

He didn't go back to Wendy and his room when he was finished in the bathroom. Instead he wandered into Eames's room, finding the man snoozing in bed still dressed and with the light still on. Neil felt tears well in his eyes for a moment, but he rapidly blinked to shoo them away because they had no purpose.

He leaned over and shook Eames gently. The man snorted and blinked a few times as he was roused out of his sleep. "You should change," Neil said softly. "You'll be more comfortable."

The tears nearly came again when Eames offered him a sleepy smile, like he was so happy to see him first thing. "Right, yeah… sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep like that."

While Eames changed into his pajamas, Neil crawled under the covers on the previously unoccupied side of the bed. He watched the man slide out of his suit and into his evening wear, the way his bulk moved through the fabric. He thought about how rough the skin of Eames's hands were, and yet how gentle they touched him, and he thought about the press of lips to his forehead or shell of his ear or cheek that came randomly, just because. He thought of the confession at the Eiffel Tower, and how it had seemed so unreal that Neil had momentarily thought they were dreaming, but then no one from his troubled past had shown up with an aluminum bat to bash in their skulls and ruin it.

Eames had told him that he loved him and hadn't expected anything in return. Eames was the same man that had told Neil he was capable of being loved without being possessed, and now Neil understood what that meant.

His entire life, all of his love had been about belonging to someone. His mother had told him, _"I love you and you are_ _ **mine**_ _and don't you ever forget it."_ Coach had given the impression that he'd loved Neil but after that summer, when they couldn't whittle away their afternoons playing different sorts of sex games, he'd disappeared without saying goodbye. The men Neil had slept with since paid him for time, and when that time was up it was over with. Eric had crushed on him because he was beautiful and he wanted to own something so lovely—Neil's personality certainly wasn't the thing Eric liked about him.

Eames though… Eames had refused his first advance, had always reminded him that if he wanted Eames to stop then all he had to do was say so, and when he'd told him that he was falling in love with him, he didn't ask to hear it in return, didn't even imply that he'd be disappointed if he didn't hear it.

Eames slid into bed next to Neil and turned off the light. "Try and get some shut eye," he said, kissing Neil's forehead (again, just because he could). "We've only got a few hours before we have to move."

Neil moved closer to Eames once the man had settled in, pressing his ear near the man's heart just so that he could hear it beating. "Eames…" he said softly, his voice barely a whisper in the dark room. He heard the heat click on.

"Hmm?"

"…I um…"

"What is it, darling? Are you worried about the job? Everything will go all right."

"No, I'm… well, yeah, I'm a little strung up about that, but…" he fell silent for a moment, pulling himself closer to Eames.

"Talk to me," Eames said gently.

Neil sighed against Eames's skin. "I don't know if I can feel love…" he said awkwardly, not sure how to word it, "but if I could, I think I would feel it for you."

There was a beat, and then Eames's hand was sliding through his hair. "Oh, darling," he said, as if Neil had just told him the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. Neil himself didn't think it amounted to much, but it was probably the most articulate he'd been about his feelings for Eames thus far.

"I just thought I would tell you," Neil said. "You know… in case something goes wrong."

"Everything's going to go just fine," Eames said, though Neil wasn't sure if the man believed that entirely. For now though, he was just happy to have the man close, his skin warm to Neil's touch, his hands sliding down his back and back up again. "Get some rest. We've got a big day tomorrow."

"Yeah," Neil said and finally managed to fall asleep.

* * *

Morning arrived and with it came a very quiet breakfast. Neil gave the plans one last look while he ate, and Eames studied through his own notes. Wendy seemed content to use her cassette player for company, the tinny punk music just barely lilting out through the headphones over her ears. Neil could tell by the subtle tenseness in Eames's shoulders that he was worried about the outcome of this job, and Neil figured he had every right to be concerned. Even if Neil's subconscious wasn't a disaster area, going against the plan at the last minute never really looked that good (even though Eames seemed like a man who could improvise on cue).

Neil just hoped that confessing his issues about Brian to Wendy the night before would help keep things calm enough. When she hugged him a little tighter than usual as they said goodbye, he could hear her silently wishing him luck.

As they took the elevator down to the ground floor, Eames looked towards Neil and offered a small smile. He could tell Eames was trying to think of something to talk about besides the job.

"So… what brought on all of that talk last night?" Eames asked, and maybe the job wasn't the only thing Eames was nervous about. Maybe he thought that in the daylight, Neil would retract his statement as stupid pillow talk.

"It was… just the first time I was really able to put it into words," Neil said. "I haven't really been able to describe it until now… and I thought that you should know."

"Well, ah, I appreciate that," Eames said, more than a little relief on his face that Neil didn't deny that the conversation had taken place.

Neil looked at his feet and then up at the descending numbers above the door. "Also… I know you guys are really worried about my subconscious fucking this up. I heard you and Mal talking. I just pretended to be asleep." He felt rather than saw Eames's guilt. "I know you guys… I know you have good reason to think I'm going to screw this up, but… I'm really going to try not to, so… that's all I can really say."

Eames reached over and squeezed Neil's shoulder lightly. "I'm not giving up on you. You know that, right?"

"I know," Neil replied. "I just… I know."

_I don't know if you can help me._

They stepped off the elevator and out of the hotel into the crisp morning. They were meeting with Sasha and Mal in an hour, and within four hours they would be hooked up in the back room of Seymour Bell's favorite coffee shop. They had paid off the clerk behind the counter with a rather generous sum of money to slip a sedative into his coffee, and they had chosen a time of day where the place would be empty (save for each of them posing as patrons).

Neil mentally crossed his fingers, his toes, whatever he could cross, and hoped that he didn't fuck this up. After all, it wasn't just a paycheck on the line here. All of their lives were at stake, and he'd come to care about all of them.

It wasn't just him and Wendy against the world now, but if he screwed up, it might be, and the world would probably get a whole lot harsher while they were at it.

Neil closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and he thought of the prison drawing he'd made in the sub shop what seemed like eons ago. He would hold in his own subconscious as best as he could manage, and he would get this job done… for all of their sakes.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

New York was bleeding through Mal's Parisian-themed streets almost as soon as Neil opened his eyes, but thankfully it wasn't enough to look entirely too bizarre. None of Bell's projections seemed to take notice of it anyway, so he figured it was a victory so far.

Neil settled into a seat on a park bench right across the street from where Eames would be meeting Mr. Bell. His plan was to play the part of a confidante in the hopes that Bell would tell him the location of the hideout or at least hint at the location of his secrets. Eames had told Neil that secrets were usually locked away in places like safes or prisons or banks, places where personal information could go. Originally they had planned to just go hunting down these places and digging through them, but with Neil's wobbly subconscious holding up the world, the direct approach seemed more pertinent to their time. He hated that they had to shift their plans that drastically because of him.

At least nothing terrible had happened so far.

He watched as Eames walked into the building where he was meeting Bell. Eames was dressed down and looked a bit seedy to match Bell and somehow also gave off the air that he was easily manipulated and a little incompetent too. Neil wondered why Eames had never quite made it as an actor, but then he thought that his craft probably hadn't been perfected until he started actually forging himself as other people. If Eames ever got out of the mind crime business, Neil was pretty sure the man could make it onto the stage or into movies no problem. He doubted however that Eames would ever go back to that life.

Once Eames was inside, Neil got up and started walking, blending into the crowds of projections seamlessly. Eames was going to have Bell lead the way, but in the meantime he had wanted Sasha and Neil to be looking for anyplace suspicious, just in case Bell's mind wasn't quite as open to sharing as Eames suspected. Mal had constructed a bank at the center of town in the hopes that the mark would fill it with his secrets, so Neil figured he might as well start there.

Neil had adjusted the maze here and there from Mal's original design, but it was burned into his brain by this point. Weaving his way through the streets and the crowd was easy, and Neil found himself at the center of town before he knew it.

…but there was a problem.

Of course there would be a problem.

Instead of the bank sitting pretty in the center of the square, Neil's eyes fell upon the prison he'd designed weeks ago on a napkin back at the sub shop. The walls were endlessly high and topped off with barbed wire, and there didn't seem to be doors on it anywhere. There were snipers in the guard towers, nothing more than silhouettes with guns.

Neil frowned, stepping back a few feet to observe the prison at a longer distance. He tried to change the physics of it to resemble at least something close to the bank Mal had wanted, but the design wouldn't budge. It was too prominent in Neil's mind, and he couldn't erase it… and there was no getting into that building either, considering that even if he tried to scale the side of it the snipers would probably take him out and cause the dream to collapse.

It was a risk to change the physics of the place even a little because Bell's projections were likely paranoid and a bit vicious, but Neil looked towards one of the unimportant, faceless buildings that was just filling the space and let it slowly morph into the bank. The projections all turned their eyes on him, but they didn't stop moving, so Neil figured he was safe for the moment. He just hung back for a while, playing it casual, and when the landscape didn't shift again, the projections slowly relaxed.

Someone grabbed Neil by the arm, and he very nearly panicked, thinking there was going to be more whispers in his ears and concussions via baseball bats, but it was only Sasha. "What is that thing?" she asked him, pointing towards the prison. She didn't look happy.

"Don't worry about it," Neil said softly. "Yeah, it got through from my subconscious but just ignore it and let's go. I moved the bank over here." He moved forward, leading the way towards the building. "Eames should be talking to him by now, so his secrets should be filling themselves up in the safe.

"Arthur, if you brought in that whole building, what else has burst through from your mind?" Sasha asked uncomfortably. Neil suppressed a shiver as they passed the side of the prison and he heard the sound of scratching and whining on the other side. "Eames and Mal wouldn't give me any details as to the state of your subconscious, just uncomfortable mumblings. What exactly have we gotten ourselves into here?"

Neil rounded on her and very promptly said, "Everything is _fine_ ," and let that be the end of it.

They climbed the steps and went through the glass front doors of the bank to find, as expected, a couple of people milling about desks, some tellers assisting customers, a line of other customers waiting. Neil looked at Sasha for a moment and then fell into line behind her.

"Which door leads to the safe?" she whispered to Neil.

He turned his nose towards the one next to the tellers' desk, the paint flat and gray and the door looking rather heavy. "Through there," he said. "I'll talk to the teller and you go through and wait for them to open the safe.

"Sounds like a plan," Sasha agreed and broke off from the line. She was dressed like the other bank workers by then so no one made a move to stop her from going inside. Neil shoved his hands in his pockets and waited his turn in line. The projections never gave him a passing glance.

 _Okay,_ he thought. _So far, so good. Only one little hiccup._

He hoped that Eames was doing okay and that Bell was being at least a little receptive to the act. Seymour was a bit violent after all. Sure, Eames could handle himself just fine in a fight (dream or otherwise), and even if he was to be killed he would just wake up back in the back room of the coffee shop, but Neil was pretty sure that Eames didn't want to rely on the hope that Sasha and he _might_ get the information. He was going to need better than a might.

Neil stepped up to the counter when he was called over and said, "I'd like to see information on the Seymour Bell account, please." He passed over identification and bank numbers, all of them meaningless except to keep the projections at bay. The teller nodded, looking bored, and disappeared into the next room, the room Sasha was waiting in. Neil bounced on his heels a little, craving a cigarette, and looked around.

This bank sort of resembled the one from back in New York, with the odd decoration from the Hutchinson House of Commerce from all places. It smelled like coffee though, as did most of the city. He was pretty happy with it overall, since the layout was at least still the same as Mal's. He wondered if she was up there in reality, watching him, touching his hand gently to spread some sort of hope that everything went well down below.

He let his eyes fall to the other bank tellers, and his blood went cold.

Coach was working behind the desk, his fingers, his mustache, and his eyes— every little detail as perfect and pristine as Neil's memory of him. He even had a nametag on the front of his shirt that just said Coach Heider, as if that was his entire name. Neil had never realized before that he didn't know the man's first name, but now that he did, he realized that he didn't exactly know Eames's either (or even if Eames was his real name to start with). He didn't like the fact that he'd made even one connection between Eames and Coach, even though he was sure that inevitably there would be some. It made him feel like he was going to vomit.

Coach turned his gaze on Neil, and Neil felt like he was frozen in place, like he couldn't look away. It was as though the man had hypnotized him and was now holding him there by invisible strings. Neil opened his mouth but not a word or a sound came out of it.

The man reached out over the counter and touched Neil's face, the familiar thumb pressing against his bottom lip. With him leaned over in such a way, Neil could see over his shoulder where a young Brian sat hunched in the corner, nose bleeding, eyes dead.

It was enough to bring Neil to his senses and jolt back away from the man's hand. Coach didn't look offended at all as he lowered his arm back to his side and continued to look into Neil's eyes with an unsettling sort of affection that Neil had at one time thought was love.

"I like you, Neil. I like you so much," he said.

Neil just kept looking at Brian who stared back at him, the silent accuser.

" _You liked it."_

Rain started pattering against the window panes, but it sounded as though it was falling against porcelain instead. Neil closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying only to focus on the task at hand.

Seymour Bell.

Secret hideout.

The maze.

The rain stopped, and Coach moved away from Neil, but he was still there and so was Brian. Neil turned his eyes away, unable to bear the unending stare from the little boy any longer. He checked his watch and discovered they were still going to be down here for another half an hour in dream time. That was bad… he had it more or less under some sort of control right now, but he didn't know how long he could hold it like this. He really wished everyone would get a fucking move on.

As if on cue, Eames entered the bank with Seymour Bell, mumbling about needing a little cash if they were going to be driving out of town. That was a good sign that Eames already had an idea as to where the hideout was located. Neil barely gave him a glance as they stepped up to the counter, even though he could feel Eames tense up a little at the sight of Coach there.

At least Brian had disappeared. Neil didn't know what he would have done if Eames had seen him sitting there.

Eames and Seymour were led through the door Sasha had gone through earlier, Eames only sparing Neil a glance that said _is everything all right?_

Neil looked away, not sure if things were okay or not.

Once they had disappeared behind the heavy door, Neil moved away from the tellers' desk. Eames and Sasha would be getting the job done, so at this point Neil felt like the best thing for him to do was get as far away from them as possible. These shades of Neil's past were only after him, and if he could keep them away from the others then they might manage to pull this heist off. It wasn't like Eames or Sasha needed him there now anyway.

He walked down the steps, the prison still looming before him like a giant eye sore. The people in the towers watched the city suspiciously, as if waiting for one of the projections (or Neil) to attempt a break out. Neil thought that if Wendy were here she'd be coming up with stories and plans they'd never actually go through with to break into the prison just to see if they could. She always had romanticized the criminal lifestyle in that way.

He actually was really wishing Wendy was there. She always had a way of making him feel better, maybe because he could undoubtedly trust her.

He made it as far as the prison walls before it started to rain again, sending his hair out of its coif and cascading into his face while simultaneously soaking his suit. He turned around to look at the projections milling about, half expecting them to be glaring him down, but they just pulled out umbrellas or kept walking unperturbed.

Neil exhaled slowly and pushed his hair back off of his face again, the water holding it there for the moment. Still, over the sounds of the (literal) shower of rain, he could hear the scratching on the walls, the whimpering from inside, begging to be let out. Neil wanted to scream at the little boy inside to shut up, but he didn't. He turned away and found that one of the buildings in the square had shifted from a faceless space-filler to the apartment complex of Brighton Beach john. Despite the sunshine (even through the cloudless rain), the building appeared shrouded in darkness—the only way Neil could remember it.

Neil felt panic slowly climbing up his spine as he realized his subconscious was continuing to break through and force its way into Bell's dream. Neil was pretty sure he wasn't calling the shots anymore, and not entirely sure if anybody was doing so in his absence. He backed away from the apartment as best as he could, but it only took a few steps before his back was meeting the wall of the prison.

Shockingly, it crumbled behind him. Neil toppled backwards into the yard, finding Coach's house sitting there in the middle with the guard tower jutting out from its roof.

Apparently, the walls he'd built weren't all that strong, no matter how tall they were. The first place he looked was to his right where he'd heard the scratching, but there was no one there, just the word BRIAN in blue graffiti. Neil approached it slowly and just barely pressed his fingertips over the paint, and he watched as more of the wall crumbled away.

The crying resumed, this time from inside the house. Neil definitely wasn't going in there, so he ran, flinging himself through the hole in the wall and back onto the street. By then the rain had been joined by a hailstorm of fruit loops, and all of Bell's projections were staring at Neil.

"Come on, Eames… please get the job done and do it fast…" Neil whispered softly to himself, standing stock still as the crowd gathered around him. They were all nameless, blurry faces of people Neil had never met except for the crystal clear projection of Brian with his bloody nose and baseball bat, pushing his way through with intent.

"Shit, shit, shit," Neil stammered, stumbling as Brian burst through the crowd and took a swing, just barely missing Neil as he dodged out of the way.

"Everything I've ever been, everything I've ever done—it feels like it was all based upon that night!" Brian shouted, continuing to take swing after swing at Neil. The bat slammed into the side of the prison and bricks toppled on top of each other as they fell. "That fucking night has come to define everything, and you don't know how it fucking feels because you _liked it_!"

The aluminum came crashing down on Neil's shoulder, and he instantly heard it as it popped out of place. His arm hanging limp at his side and radiating pain, Neil turned and ran. Cereal crunched beneath his feet as he bolted back towards the bank. He didn't care that he was being followed and that the job could be in danger. He wanted someone to protect him from this mess.

As he started up the steps, he saw Eames and Sasha running out, looking shaken. Eames had a bullet hole in his shoulder. Apparently things had gone badly, but then again, how could Bell _not_ notice the kind of shit happening in this dream world? Neil had nowhere to go but into Eames's arms, and the man barely had a second to grab him and shout over the roaring wind, "What's going on?"

Brian burst through the crowd and made it up the steps in less than a second, and even Eames didn't have the reflexes to stop the boy before he bashed Neil's head in. The last thing Neil remembered was crying out and hearing Eames shout his name, the taste of blood in his mouth, and the wishing it could all be over, just like that night in Brighton Beach.

Brian shouted at him, "SLUT!"

* * *

Neil jerked awake, flinging himself forward and immediately yanking the needle out of his arm. Mal was at his side instantly, and the only way he knew he was shaking was because of the stillness of her hands on his arm. "It's too soon!" Mal said.

"I know," Neil replied, doing everything he could to play the part of Arthur that he'd been perfecting—calm, competent Arthur. "The dream is collapsing… I think it went wrong before that. It just went so wrong, Mal. Fuck, we've got to keep Bell asleep so we can get out of here. Start wiping things down."

He immediately leaned over Seymour and administered another sedative, pressing the needle directly into the man's jugular. It wasn't strong, but hopefully it would be enough to keep him out for a couple more minutes.

Eames and Sasha awoke in time with one another, and the next thing Neil knew was that his face was being cupped in Eames's hands. Eames was making hurried commands to the others, but he couldn't take his eyes off of Neil. It was as though he had to be absolutely positive that he wasn't dead, even though Eames of all people knew how dying in a dream worked.

"Bleeding Christ," Eames said, shoving Neil towards the door. "What the fuck was that?"

"Did you find out what you needed to find out?" Neil asked instead as they scattered when they hit the street.

"You'd better hope so because he shot me after I got the information out of him, so now I'm wondering if he didn't know all along."

Eames hadn't let go of Neil's arm, dragging him along until they were a few blocks down and then slipping inside a bar. Eames made a beeline to to the very back table in the corner, Neil in tow. Neil's heart was still racing, and it continued to do so long after Eames pulled him into his arms and breathed shakily into his ear.

"I've seen people shot and blown up and stabbed, but never have I seen a projection beat someone so brutally…" Eames whispered, and Neil instantly understood why the man was so shaken.

"I only felt the first blow… well, the second one," Neil said softly. His shoulder still ached with phantom pain from the bat.

As an afterthought, Neil added, barely above a whisper, "I'm sorry… I ruined it."

"That's not necessarily true. Sasha was looking at the paperwork before we got there. She might have the answers, but we'll need to regroup after we're sure he doesn't come after us."

Neil sank into Eames's arms, suddenly feeling woozy, and Eames had him sit down, and when Neil laid his head down on the table, that was the last thing he remembered.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil McCormick is fraying at the seams. Then he meets Eames, professional dreamer.

Neil opened his eyes and found his face buried in a warm shoulder. It took several seconds for him to realize he was being piggybacked. "Eames?" he said drowsily.

"You had a bit of an adrenaline crash, I imagine," Eames said, stopping to let Neil down. "I figured you'd be more comfortable if I took you back to the hotel. It doesn't seem like we've been followed."

When Neil remembered where the adrenaline crash had come from, his shoulders drooped guiltily. "Eames… I… what happened in there, I…"

Eames shook his head. "Don't worry about it," he said, pressing his hand into the middle of Neil's back and leading him across the street to the entrance of their hotel. Eames had apparently walked the entire way there with Neil snoozing on his back. Neil wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed for Eames or embarrassed for himself, but he figured at this point it didn't matter.

When they got back up to the room, Neil collapsed into the bed, and Wendy who had been sitting on the end of it and blowing on her freshly painted nails asked, "So, how'd the job go?"

"Badly," Neil said, voice muffled from the pillow. "My subconscious beat me to death."

Neil peeked over his shoulder to see Eames raise his eyebrows. Wendy promptly shut down the man's surprise by responding with, "What'd you expect? He tells me everything. Of course I knew about that."

Eames huffed and said to Neil, "So you'll tell her anything but not me?"

Neil rolled onto his back and smirked. "Are you jealous?"

Eames sneered a little, but he neither confirmed nor denied the accusation. Wendy sat back on her arms after having assured herself that her nails were dry and said, "So, things were kind of disastrous. Should I be packing my shit?"

"Not quite yet," said Eames, "There's still a possibility that we've gotten what we needed, but we need to play this really close to the chest. There's a distinct likelihood that Bell knows we were inside of his mind, and while that's not a one-hundred percent fact, it's still something to worry about. If he's realized we were there and figured out what we were after, then he could send a warning to the big boys. We don't want that happening or we won't have time to pack our shit."

"Bell's not smart enough to do that," Neil replied lightly. "The guy runs on anger and pride. If he knew we were in his head he'd come after us himself rather than go crying to his boss."

"I feel the same way," Eames agreed, "but we can't rule anything out at this point, now can we?"

Neil shrugged. "I guess not."

Eames nodded and started to pace the room, thinking out loud. "Sasha won't be able to touch base with us until she's positive that she's secure. Knowing her, that won't be until tomorrow. We'd best not show our faces around town until then, and we'll get a flight out of here for tomorrow evening… I've got a place we can stop off at in London. We could go there, and then maybe catch a flight stateside or Canada a few days after that… though it might be better to send you two back to New York or even back to your hometown for a short time, that would be good…"

"Eames," Neil said, interrupting the mumbling. "It's just… whatever. Let's just order room service, sleep on it, and do all that in the morning." He hoped Eames got the impression that Neil wasn't worried, but Eames could read him like a book, so that was unlikely. Honestly he just couldn't stand to hear the man making last minute plans because his own subconscious had fucked everything up so royally. He really thought he'd be able to handle it, and now he was starting to think that maybe he was screwed after all. His walls were big and tall and menacing, but they fell apart so easily, and that scared the shit out of him. He feared that it was only going to get worse from here.

What if next time, when Eames was down there with him, Brighton Beach john showed up?

That thought alone nearly rattled Neil to the core. Eames had seen bits and pieces of Coach and of Brian, but there was absolutely nothing Neil was afraid of more than Eames coming across than _him_ … Brian and Coach only came after Neil, but Neil feared that Brighton Beach wouldn't be quite so stingy with his victims.

Eames did shut up for now at least, and they ordered room service as suggested. Neil was feeling vulnerable after the attack in his subconscious, so he stayed close to Wendy, keeping his head on her shoulder when they laid back to eat and watch a movie. Neil appreciated that Eames never faltered or seemed angry over this even though they were kind-of-sort-of dating. It was as though he understood Neil's need for Wendy and had no intention of getting in the way of that.

Neil fell asleep sometime around eleven o'clock while Wendy was perched Indian style on the end of the bed and talking softly to Eames about nothing in particular. He was soothed by the familiar sounds of their voices into the darkness where he didn't dream of a thing.

He had meant to ask Eames about that.

* * *

When he woke, the room was dim, but he could hear Eames moving about in the other one. It sounded like he was on the phone.

Neil crawled out of bed, smoothing down the rumpled suit he'd fallen asleep in as best as he could, and wandered into the next room. Eames had just hung up the phone.

"Sasha?" Neil asked, voice still rough with sleep.

Eames nodded, looking marginally relieved. "She got the information. She said she'd like to meet here and touch base with us before heading out of the country. She's going to tell me where the hideout is, and I'm going to deliver it to the man who hired us, and then we just lie low and wait for our funds to reach our bank accounts."

Neil nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind his ear. "So, does this mean you're going to send Wendy and me back to the states while you wait here for a bit to get the information to our employer?"

Eames nodded. "Looks that way. Sasha is too spooked to stick around."

Neil wondered if it was his terrifying subconscious that frightened her away. Sasha was tough as nails, but Neil's mind had scared her.

"Hey," Eames said, letting his hands fall onto Neil's shoulders, and Neil realized that he must have been looking pretty somber all of a sudden. "We completed the job. Everything is going to be okay now, all right?"

Neil shook his head, sighing. "No… it isn't… How am I supposed to get jobs when my subconscious keeps ruining everything? Mal said that I wouldn't be able to keep working this way… but what am I going to do, Eames?"

"We'll figure it out," Eames assured him, cupping Neil's jaw with one hand and stroking the cheekbone with his thumb. "Keep in mind that, despite the issues with your projections, we still managed the job. It could have been a disaster, but it wasn't. Everything will sort itself. You'll just have to give it some time."

Neil furrowed his brow a little. Eames was acting awfully cool about it, but he wasn't sure why. He doubted the man would tell him the truth though, even if he asked, so instead he looked into Eames's eyes and said, "I don't know your first name."

Eames blinked, a confused smile forming on his face over the out of the blue statement. "What?"

"I don't know your first name," Neil said again, deadly serious. "What is it? I mean… I'm still going to call you Eames, but… I want to know."

Eames paused, wet his lips, blushed a little, and said, "It's Bernard."

Neil snorted, unable to help the grin that spread across his face. "Wow. That's awful," he said.

Eames was fighting and failing to hide his own smile then. "I know," he said. "It's an old family name. I hate it." He pulled Neil close and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Your parents never wanted you to get fucked," Neil laughed. "I mean, God… can you imagine?" He slipped into his best sex voice and moaned, " _Oh, Bernard_ ," before devolving into a fit of laughter that Eames accompanied with his own. Eames dragged Neil playfully by the lapels further into the room and then let them fall on the bed together where the laughter quickly turned into gentle kisses and nips.

"You know," Eames said, kissing the hinge of Neil's jaw, "Mal believes I show favoritism towards you."

Neil turned his head to meet Eames's lips, sucking on the man's bottom lip for a moment before teasing, "Now, what do you suppose gave her that idea?"

Eames grinned. "I can't imagine."

Neil nosed his way up the side of Eames's face until he could smell the man's hair. He'd showered before bed that night and still smelled of soap and sleep. That reminded him. "Eames…" he said softly as the man laid a roadmap of kisses down the side of his neck. "Eames, I don't dream anymore. Is that because my subconscious is so bad?"

Eames paused over what he was doing, laid one more kiss as an afterthought, and then sat up, smoothing some of the loose hairs away from Neil's forehead. "No, love," he assured him. "It's a side effect of the somnacin. After using it for a little while, you stop dreaming naturally. I stopped dreaming a long time ago."

"Oh," Neil said, a little relieved. "Well… good. I was starting to think something was wrong with me." Of course, something _was_ wrong with him or his subconscious wouldn't have been in the state it was in, but at least he didn't have to add another thing to the list.

Eames smiled fondly at Neil, and for some reason that made Neil chest ache. Eames just loved him so much, and Neil just didn't know how to process that information. He closed his eyes to it instead and let Eames resume kissing him.

It wasn't long before they were both stripped out of their clothes and tumbling about in bed, touching and caressing one another almost carelessly. Neil found himself completely wrapped up in the moment, and, shockingly enough, it wasn't just because of the impending round of sex. He was entranced by Eames's smell and the way his fingers dragged across Neil's skin, the way Eames's mouth tasted and how his nose would scrunch up when Neil would lay kisses over a particularly ticklish spot. He was fascinated over the odd freckle or mole he would find on Eames, pressing his fingers over them like buttons to his heart before tracing each tattoo line.

Eames really was a beautiful man, Neil thought. Anyone would be lucky to have him, and yet he'd decided he loved Neil of all people—the one person on the planet, it seemed, that didn't know how to love someone back. Of course, Eames's first love had died and had never even been remotely interested in him that way either, so maybe Eames just really knew how to pick the wrong guys.

Neil couldn't help but mention it, even as Eames was fingering him open. "You could have someone else, you know," Neil said, voice clipped as he bit back on a moan. "Somebody better than me."

"I thought you were a professional when it came to sex," Eames teased, and this time Neil really did moan because the man had crooked his fingers just right.

"No—I… I mean the other stuff. The relationship stuff," Neil clarified, eyelashes fluttering a bit. "The whole… non-sex part of it."

It was weird even for Neil to think about. He'd never been in a relationship that wasn't ultimately about the sex, not even with Coach… Well, now that he thought about it, especially not with Coach. Coach's hunger was so insatiable that they had to bring in other boys, all the faces blurry and unimportant in Neil's memory except for one. Had the other boys looked quite so broken and been so afraid? Had they erased those moments from their memories as well?

"Darling," Eames said softly, and it interrupted Neil's train of thought, "you're doing just fine. If this was just about the sex, I wouldn't still be here. I want more than just your body. I want your brain. I want your heart. I want you to have those things of mine."

"Yeah… but—but why, Eames?" Neil asked. "I don't do any of the couple stuff, the romantic stuff… I won't even suck your cock."

Eames sighed, sitting back a little but not ceasing the task at hand. "I find it odd that you think cock sucking is romantic, but to each his own I guess. Neil, I expect you to do things in your own time, you know? Romance… it's a relative thing. It doesn't have to be the exchange of flowers and jewelry and grand gestures. You eat meals with me. You sleep next to me. You tease me and let me see you when you're vulnerable. That means far more to me than if you were to… I don't know, serenade me with love songs or some shite."

Neil smiled. " _Serenade_ you?"

"It's just an example," Eames huffed. "And see? That. That smile. That means something to me."

Neil's expression felt odd on his face, like it was one he'd never quite experienced before. "Really?"

Eames nodded. "Really."

There was a moment of silence where they just stared into each other's eyes. Then, Neil said, "So, is this moment any less romantic for you because you have your fingers in my ass?"

Eames laughed, burying his face into the side of Neil's neck. "You wanker," he chuckled, barely a breath against the skin. Neil thought he'd quite like to hear Eames's laughter forever and wondered if that was the romance Eames was talking about.

Neil spread his legs for Eames and urged him on, and after a moment to prepare, Eames was sliding inside.

They fucked, lazy with the early morning exhaustion and languid with affection. It was neither the most passionate nor the most exciting sex Neil had ever experienced, but he found that he didn't give a shit at all. He just liked being close to Eames, feeling the man's mouth close over his own and rob him of his air in the most delicious way. He realized after he'd orgasmed and was lying pressed up against Eames with the man stroking his back affectionately, that the reasoning behind all this was because it really wasn't just about the sex with Eames.

Neil liked listening to Eames's heartbeat and feeling him breathe in and out. He liked to stroke his cold fingers down Eames's side and feel the goose bumps raise there. He even liked the way Eames would pull the blankets over them both, the way Eames would let Neil lay sprawled on top of him, the way the man's fingers would tangle in his hair even when it was greasy.

Maybe he did know how to love someone.

Maybe he did love Eames.

He thought that it was actually quite possible, but he was too afraid to admit to it out loud for fear that he would later find out he was wrong. For the moment, he just stayed quiet, nestled in close to Eames's warmth, and he thought about it. Eames's heartbeat thumped gently into Neil's ear, singing him a lullaby until he dozed off.

* * *

Neil jolted awake, and he wasn't sure why.

He sat up, finding the late morning light beaming in through the window and also finding that he was alone in the bed. Figuring Eames had gone to fetch breakfast, he put his clothes back on and wandered over into the adjoined room.

The first person he saw was Wendy, standing in the corner, white as a ghost and completely frozen. Neil turned his head and immediately saw the back of Eames, his hands raised in defense, and over by the window Seymour Bell with Sasha, the man's arm wrapped around her neck and a pistol pressed up against her skull.

Neil's mouth went dry.

"Tell me what you took out of my head!" Seymour shouted, seemingly a little hysterical. Neil was also pretty sure the man was drunk or high. "Tell me or this bitch is going to die!"

"I'm sorry, Eames—" Sasha said, voice choked around the man's arm. "He said he'd kill my daughter if I didn't bring him here."

"Just let her go," Eames said calmly. "She doesn't have anything to do with this. Let's just talk about this. Maybe we can work out a deal."

"No!" the man shouted. "No deals! Tell me now, or she dies!"

"No one has to die here, Mr. Bell," Eames said. Neil could tell Eames was nervous. He didn't know why he wasn't just telling the man, but then again, if he knew what they'd been up to he'd probably kill all of them. Perhaps he was just stalling for time until the authorities could get there. It was doubtful a guy like Seymour had sneaked up here unnoticed.

Seymour turned his eyes on Neil when he realized he was standing there, and panic invaded his features. He hadn't expected Neil to be there, apparently.

"Get down on the floor!" he shouted, pointing his gun at Neil momentarily before pressing the muzzle back to Sasha's skull. "Do it!"

Neil did as told, glaring the whole time. He looked over at the suitcase nearby where he was sure the gun Sasha had given to him was stashed away. If he could just get to it fast enough and fire a bullet between the man's eyes…

"I know you were in my head," Seymour shouted, crazed. "Tell me what you took from me!"

Neil met Sasha's eyes and then looked back at the suitcase. She took a deep breath and then elbowed the man harshly in the stomach. Seymour cried out and the gun went off, a stray bullet flying through the air, and Neil dove for the suitcase, digging out the gun and pointing it at the man immediately.

Only…

Everyone had gone still, eyes wide.

Neil turned his head slowly, just in time to see Wendy slide down the wall and hit the floor with a muffled thud.


	23. Chapter 23

Time had stopped. Neil was sure of it.

Time stopped, and everyone was frozen, and then the room dimmed at the edges. Neil realized that he had nearly passed out.

Wendy didn't move, still slumped over, her face not visible to Neil. He crawled over to her, turning her over in his arms. What he saw nearly caused him to drop her and leap back like he'd touched a hot stove.

Wendy's beautiful mouth had blood seeping from the corners, and there was a blossom of blood on the chest of her shirt, the chest he had slept against many nights in the past. Her skin was pale and milky like it always had been, unblemished. Her hair was still tangled from sleep, and she was still in her pajamas, a pair of pajamas that Neil realized had been given to her by his mother three Christmases ago. Her eyes were staring back at him, but they were milky and didn't see.

Her mouth opened, and she croaked, "Neil?" and then the small amount of tension still in her body faded away. She went completely limp in Neil's arms.

Neil stared down at her, at his Wendy, his beautiful Wendy and at how her blood now caked his hands. "Wendy?" he called out, voice tiny and far away. "Wendy…?"

The next thing Neil recalled was a rushing sound in his ears and the room going sort of white, like someone had just turned on a hideously bright light. He couldn't much see or hear anything, and for a moment he thought that he must have died or something. Maybe this was purgatory or heaven or some shit.

" _I wish there was a movie showing right now."_

Neil blinked to try and clear his vision, but he still saw no one. It was as though the voice was projecting over the ringing in his ears. "Me too…" he mumbled softly, knowing he'd been here before, that he'd had this conversation before.

" _A film about our lives. Everything that's happened so far. And the last scene would just be us standing right here."_

Neil turned, suddenly finding himself in the Hutchinson drive-in's parking lot, darkness enshrouding them, and Wendy standing next to him with her hair still in pigtails. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he didn't move.

"Just you and me," she said.

"Yeah," Neil replied, his voice just a breath on his lips.

Slowly, she reached over and picked up the speaker, the one that was supposed to be hooked into the car, and she said softly, "I hear something." Her ear was pressed to the side of it, her eyelashes fluttering closed. She looked beautiful. It started to snow. "It's the voice of God."

Neil took the speaker from her, held it up to his own ear, and he smiled a little, "I hear him," he said, even though he didn't know for sure. He wanted to pretend. The thrill of the moment was too lovely to miss. "I hear him."

The sound was drowned out by the return of the ringing, louder and louder and louder and louder and louder and—

" _You'd trick with the wrong guy and I'd find pieces of you everywhere."_

"Neil—"

" _You have got to be so careful."_

"Neil!"

" _Don't 'I know' me, Neil McCormick. You do the wrong thing with the wrong person and you die."_

" **Neil**! Oh, God—"

" _Period."_

"Neil, **stop**!"

" _End of story."_

Neil gasped, vision suddenly coming back in a rush so fast that he was nearly dizzy with it. Someone was desperately pulling on him, maybe more than one person, but he didn't know who. He looked down at his hands to find them wrapped tightly around the neck of Seymour Bell, whose face had already turned blue. It was an interesting color against the red and white of Neil's hands, and he thought for a moment that it looked almost patriotic. Still, the man's ugly face was contorted, tongue sticking out, his eyes rolled back in his head. Neil was still straddling his chest, pressing down on the man's throat with all of his might, but it was almost like someone else had control of his hands.

He couldn't stop it.

…but then, he wasn't really sure that he wanted to.

His vision went in and out in flashed, the ringing still so loud in his ears that he couldn't think. He was pulled off of Seymour. He broke free. He dove back in, this time beating him on his chest. He felt ribs crack. He was pulled off of him again. He broke free again. He started kicking the man in the head until blood was coming out of his nose, mouth and ear.

Another harsh kick, a snap, and then the ringing stopped.

Someone was screaming.

Well, two people were screaming and someone was _roaring_.

It took several seconds for Neil to realize that he was the one making that beastly sound… the two people screaming appeared to be Eames and Sasha. Oh.

"Neil, Jesus Christ—"

Eames voice. Neil recognized Eames's voice and then Eames's face in front of his own. He recognized Eames's hands on his face, holding his head still, and then he realized he was swinging and kicking at Eames too.

No, he didn't want to do that to Eames.

"Calm down, bloody—Look at me—Neil—"

Neil finally stopped shouting, his fists and feet slowing, and he realized that Eames had thrown him onto the bed and was basically holding him down with his body weight. There were bruises on Eames's arms and chest, places where Neil had punched him or grabbed him. There were bloody prints on his shirt and skin. Eames was breathing raggedly, eyes wide like a cornered animal. It was as though he'd just witnessed something horrible.

The expression was entirely too similar to Brian's.

The room fell silent except for shaky inhales and exhales. Neil could just see the top of Sasha's head, crouched down near the end of the bed where Wendy…

Neil made a sound that was somewhere between a whine and a sob. Eames immediately started shushing him, and that pissed Neil off, so this time he did shove him and beat him with purpose. "Get the fuck—Get the fuck off of me!" Neil wailed, and Eames did.

Neil sat up and crawled to the end of the bed, finding Wendy still laying there, looking almost like she was asleep except for the ruby droplets of blood on her lips. Sasha or someone had gone to the liberty to close her eyes.

Neil let out a choked sound, sniffed, felt blood running down the back of his throat. He ran his hand over his upper lip and found a fresh smear of blood there, his own blood, mixed with the drying blood that was Wendy's.

Wendy was dead.

All the strength seemed to slide out of Neil's body, and he toppled off the edge of the bed as he fainted, the last image in his mind being the side of Wendy's perfect face.

* * *

Neil woke up to discover he could barely open his eyes. He sat up slowly to find himself in an unfamiliar room, though the decorations seemed familiar. His sluggish brain came up with _Mal_ , and figured that he must have been at her apartment.

He crawled out of bed, finding that someone had stripped him down to his boxers and a t-shirt, and he trudged over to the window. The sun was setting. He'd been sleeping all day. He looked around the room again and found a glass of water and some pills sitting on the bedside table. Figuring they were for him, he swallowed them and then drained the glass before hunting down a bathroom. He was aching what seemed to be everywhere, but he couldn't remember why.

His reflection in the mirror horrified him, mostly because he hadn't been expecting it. At some point his lip had been split, and it appeared his nose had been broken, causing bruising and swelling under both of his eyes (well, that explained why he could barely open them). Someone had taped gauze over the bridge of his nose, but it still looked pretty ugly. Neil's hands weren't in much better shape, he quickly discovered, as he found that his knuckles were bruised as badly as his face and that the middle one on his left hand had even split open. There were bruises on his wrists that looked like someone's hands, like someone had grabbed him harshly. He found more bruising and a couple of scratches on his chest, his knees.

Where had all of this come from?

He looked back into the mirror, and suddenly it all came flooding back.

Seymour Bell.

A fight.

 _Wendy_.

All of Neil's air rushed out of him, and he found himself crumpling to the floor with the weight of it. He knew he started crying at some point, but he didn't realize how loud it was until the bathroom door was opening and Eames was crouching down next to him, pulling him into his arms. Neil was barely aware that Eames was even there, even after the man started gently rocking him back and forth.

He had never cried like this.

He had never, ever sobbed this way, not even after Brighton Beach. It didn't even sound like him, these pathetic little whimpers and hiccups. He was sure his face had contorted into something terrible, something like Brian's that night on Coach's couch, and of all the mental pictures to come to mind at that moment he really wished that hadn't been the one.

"Eames…" he whined. "Eames…"

Eames shushed him gently, just like before, right after it had happened, but Neil didn't have the strength to push him away this time. He just cried in the man's arms until he ran out of tears, both of them curled up on the bathroom floor, and Neil was sure they had to have been there for hours, hadn't they?

Eames thumbed a tear away from the corner of Neil's eye, and Neil just stayed slumped in his lap, feeling an overwhelming numbness. "What happened to her?" he croaked, voice hoarse from crying and screaming. "What happened to…"

"She's with the coroner," Eames said.

A fresh wave of tears overcame Neil, and Eames had to ride out the second storm before speaking some more. This one at least was shorter.

"I'm so sorry," Eames whispered, burying his face into the top of Neil's head. He sounded so guilty and lost, like he didn't know what to do with himself now, and Neil couldn't help but thing that Eames sounded a lot like how he himself felt. "Neil, I… I'm so sorry. I don't even know what to say right now."

"What am I going to tell her mom?" Neil asked the air. "Fuck… her mom and her dad and her little brother… My mom… Eric… How can I tell them that…? Eames, how can I tell them? What the fuck do I say?"

"Don't worry about that right now," Eames said softly, and he was petting Neil's hair. Neil wasn't sure when he started doing that.

"What happened to my face?" Neil asked then, feeling nearly on the point of vomiting or passing out.

"When you attacked Bell, he got a few good hits in on you. You probably don't remember. You weren't all there for most of it."

After a few minutes where neither of them said anything, Eames lifted Neil into his arms and carried him back into the bedroom, settling him down on the bed. They'd given him extra pillows to keep his head elevated so that his nose wouldn't swell anymore.

"So…" Neil said softly as Eames lay down next to him, still holding him close. "Did I kill him?"

Eames was hesitant before he replied with, "Yes. You kicked him hard enough in the head that you broke his skull. I don't know the details. I cleaned up the scene and got you out of it before the police arrived though, so you won't be charged… Sasha and I were very thorough about it. The police just assume he was crazed and high when he broke in. He has a criminal record after all."

"So who do they think beat him to death?" Neil asked.

"It is, as of right now, unresolved," Eames replied, sighing. Eames looked as though he had aged ten years in an afternoon. Neil wondered if he himself looked the same way.

"So… what now…?" Neil asked.

"After they confirm cause of death, I suppose they'll give her body back to her family… They already know, Neil."

Neil blinked, feeling another tear slide down the side of his face. "She was my soul mate, Eames…"

"I know, love…" Eames said, pressing a kiss to Neil's forehead. "I know…"

* * *

Neil woke up again to find that the room had gone dark. Eames was still next to him, snoring softly. For a long time, Neil just laid there, listening to the man.

Wendy was dead.

The thought made Neil nauseous. He could still feel her blood on his hands.

Wendy was _dead_.

It was all his fault. He had brought her to Paris because he'd wanted her close, had promised her the high life full of adventure and entertainment. Eames had warned him that it wasn't safe to keep people he cared about so close, and Neil had been so stupid for not listening. Neil had lived by that sort of code his whole _life_ , but with Wendy it had been different… and now…

Wendy was dead.

Neil's Wendy.

Neil's _soul mate_ , Wendy. His true partner in crime. The one person he could trust with anything, that knew his secrets (save for one), that always did whatever she could to help him even when he was an asshole.

Wendy was dead, and there was no bringing her back.

Neil had set her up for it, and that was just as bad as if he had shot her himself.

He got out of the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress and wake Eames. He found his suitcase on the floor and pulled some clothes out of it, throwing them on. He checked on Eames to make sure he was still asleep, and he was.

Neil went into the bathroom and ran his hair under the faucet, cleaning out the pomade from the day before, and then he rubbed it with the hand towel until it was just a bit damp. At least with his hair hanging over his forehead the bruising on his face wasn't quite as obvious (though it as still terribly obvious).

He turned away from the mirror in disgust and returned to the bedroom. Eames hadn't moved. The man was likely pretty tired out after the day he'd had.

Neil shoved his feet into his shoes and picked up his bag, then knelt before Eames's bag and dug in it until he found the man's wallet. He took all of the cash out of it and crammed it into his own front pocket, and he snagged a couple of his credit cards too.

He spared another glance at Eames, Eames who had told him that he loved him, and then he left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

All of the rooms were dark and quiet, eerily peaceful. Neil found himself passing by pictures on the walls of Mal and her family, all of them smiling out of their frames like nothing had ever gone astray in the world. He wanted to smash each one of them, but he didn't.

He stopped at Mal's fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, and then slipped out the front door, down the steps, and out onto the Parisian street. It was almost dawn if the purplish-blue line at the edge of the sky was any indication, but Neil found no beauty in it. The color looked too much like Seymour Bell's face after Neil had choked him into unconsciousness. He was glad the bastard was dead… but he'd never killed anyone before.

He wondered if Seymour Bell's family would miss him. They had never been fond of him, if his research had been correct (and he knew it was), but Neil still thought that perhaps he'd be mourned. Neil wondered if, had he died with Wendy, he would have been mourned.

His mother would, probably. Maybe Eric. Brian might take it as an opportunity to end his own life…

There really weren't many people, were there?

Coach would never show up, probably didn't even really remember Neil now. Hell, Coach might have been dead.

Eames…

Neil didn't want to think about how Eames would react, not now.

He called on a taxi and asked to be driven to the airport. When he arrived he ignored the strange looks people gave him over the state of his face and purchased the first ticket to New York he could get his hands on.

By the time the sun had risen, Neil was on a plane, and he was alone.

He was more alone than he'd ever been.


	24. Chapter 24

Neil couldn't go back to their apartment. There were too many things of Wendy's still there, and he just couldn't bear to look at them.

He instead rented the first apartment he could find, a shittier one than the one they'd been staying in when they first started out, and even though he could have sold the apartment he and Wendy had bought in the upscale part of town, he decided to keep paying the rent on it while bunkering down in the terrible, rat infested one. Maybe there was some stupid part of him waiting to wake up and find that Wendy was still alive, a part of him that knew she'd be pissed if she came back to New York to find her awesome apartment up for sale again and all of her things given to other people. Neil wanted to preserve the place just as it was. He could still see her unmade bed with the clothes she'd decided not to pack strewn across the end of it, could still picture her cluttered make-up table with pictures and ticket stubs shoved into the sides of the vanity mirror. He could even see the poster for the Pixies over her bed.

He chose not to think about it if he could help it, and when he couldn't help it he'd usually use a fake ID at the liquor store to buy something that would royally fuck him up to the point of forgetting.

He felt like he was drunk all the time now.

It was starting to get warm out. The trees in the parks were budding with life and the sky was blue more often than it was gray. Neil was sure that Wendy's funeral had already happened by now back in Hutchinson, and some nights when he was wasted and staggering back towards home, he'd picture it in his mind. She was all beautiful and done up and laying in a glass casket like Snow White, and it was surrounded by flowers. All of Wendy's friends and family were there, dressed in black. Eric would lean against Neil's mother and whisper, "Where's Neil?" and she would just shake her head. Eames would be standing at the back, and he'd be next to Brian who probably just came to support Eric because that was what real friends did.

Neil had let Wendy die, and then he'd abandoned her. He was the shittiest friend alive…

…but he hoped he could make it up to her this way, the way that he was living. Being out of the dreamshare would save his subconscious from ruining any more jobs, and therefore it would prevent more deaths. Neil should have known better than to think he was cut out for anything more than being a slut.

That word made him drink too, but the drink just didn't have the kick that he needed all the time. Sometimes he'd slip into the gay clubs and take whatever drug was offered to him. He didn't remember much about those experiences other than the colored lights and hot, sweaty bodies whirling around him. He liked the dizziness.

His coat got stolen during one of those hazy, spinning nights, but he didn't really care. He woke from a drug-induced fever dream to find himself pressed against a bathroom wall and getting fucked, and he didn't really care about that either. He jolted awake to discover he was lying in the street in what he assumed was his own vomit with a police officer shouting at him, and he spent a night in jail, and he just didn't give a damn.

None of it mattered, so all of it was fine.

…but then he started dreaming naturally again.

The neighbors in his apartment complex started to complain, and he wasn't sure why until he was told that he was screaming in his sleep. He would fall out of bed most nights or even wake up to find he'd wandered into different rooms. One morning he even awoke to find himself shivering in the stairway.

This, this _did_ matter, but he wasn't really sure what to do about it except not sleep.

So Neil did just that, and if he stayed awake long enough, usually when he collapsed out of exhaustion his body was too tired to dream. It was better than nothing, he supposed.

He'd been playing the Not-Sleeping Game for about three and a half weeks, running on only a few hours of rest every few days and smoking or drinking or drugging his way through most nights. It made him feel like absolute hell, but it was better than the alternative.

It was the afternoon, and he was parked on the stoop of his shitty apartment while some of the tenants kids played on the sidewalk. He had a bottle of something alcoholic wrapped in a paper bag at his foot, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, and his head pressed up against the concrete railing of the stoop's stairs. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn for the past three days, even though there was a stain from some unknown source on the front of his t-shirt. He only had the clothes he'd packed to go to France with, after all, since he wouldn't step foot back into his and Wendy's place.

He closed his eyes against the sunlight, taking a long drag off of his cigarette. The squeals and screams of the playing children were not helping his hangover.

When he opened his eyes again, there was a new person in his sights, a man with a large yellow duffel bag slung over his back standing across the street and staring at him. Neil pushed his scraggly hair out of his eyes and squinted a bit and nearly snorted. The man looked like Eames, but that was impossible. Neil decided he must have been hallucinating or that maybe he was still coming down off of a drug he'd had last night. He took a swig from the bottle and put out his cigarette on the step.

When he looked up, the man was crossing the street and coming over.

Neil didn't care.

"Good God," he said to Neil, and he sounded like Eames too. Neil wondered if he reached out and touched his trousers if he'd be able to feel the fabric.

Neil looked over at the children and realized that they had stopped playing and were watching him. He looked back at Eames, slowly taking in his pale blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his gray trousers, his polished and worn shoes… and he realized that Eames was quite real.

Neil scrambled to get to his feet and run, but he was running on about three hours sleep in as many days and still sluggish from the alcohol. Eames managed to grab him before he even got off the steps, but he still struggled to free himself until he managed it. He only managed to run a few feet before Eames caught him again though and Neil found himself slammed up against the brick wall closest to him.

"Stop! Stop running!" Eames shouted, and he sounded more pissed off than Neil had ever heard him. "Stop it right now! Fuck!"

Neil did stop, only giving his arm one final jerk as if to be sure Eames wasn't going to let him go, and then he stared back at the man before him, breathing raggedly. "How did you find me?" Neil managed to ask once he got his breath under him.

"You've been using my credit cards for your booze and you expected I wouldn't pinpoint your location? Jesus Christ."

There was a moment of silence between them. Neil couldn't help but stare at Eames, his chest aching at the very sight of his face. He looked so beautiful that he still didn't seem real, and Neil sort of wanted to cry.

"You look good," Neil said instead, quirking the corner of his mouth up in a weak half-smile. "I didn't expect you to come chasing me down. I figured you didn't care, since you didn't cancel your credit cards."

Eames sighed, looking tired, though not nearly as tired as Neil felt. "Of course I didn't cancel the cards. I was trying to keep track of your movements. It still took a hell of a lot longer to find you than I'd hoped it would. God, look at yourself. You're a mess."

Neil did snort that time. "What did you expect? Did you think you'd just show up here, find me doing just fine and then let me fall into your arms?"

"I didn't expect you to be this bad off," Eames said. "Fuck, Neil, when's the last time you slept? Ate?"

Neil shrugged because he didn't remember exactly. "It's your fault," he said lightly. "You're the one who said I'd stop dreaming, but I'm dreaming again. You lied."

"I never—" Eames paused to inhale and exhale slowly so that he didn't blow the lid on his anger. "I never said that. When you use the somnacin it does keep you from dreaming naturally, but if you don't use it, over time it starts to come back."

"Whatever," Neil shrugged and started to try and move away from Eames. It didn't seem like Eames had any intent of letting him go. Neil frowned and glared at him. "What do you want?"

"What do you think?" Eames asked.

Neil raised his eyebrows. "Do you want me to suck your cock?" he asked flatly, just to be an asshole, and he got a sick satisfaction out of the way Eames repressed the urge to hit him.

He didn't like the following hurt expression Eames gave him though.

"This is incredible, you're incredible," Eames said, shaking his head, a bitter smile on his lips. "I can't bloody believe this."

Neil could tell that Eames was simmering under the surface, ready to explode if Neil gave him the chance. He briefly fantasized over what Eames would do, finding it strangely similar to the thought he'd had on the night they'd met. He could imagine himself bleeding to death in an alleyway and found a welling up of hysterical joy at the thought of it.

"So, this is how it's going to be, hm?" Eames asked, voice clipped. "You're just going to ah… to do this? You're just going to spiral into the abyss and not care about the people left standing on the edge."

Neil dug a cigarette out of his pocket and put it to his lips, but Eames immediately snatched it away. A muscle jumped in Neil's jaw, but he stayed silent.

"I have been looking everywhere for you," Eames said, and he was starting to tremble a little bit with everything he was holding in. "I have been worried sick about you. When I woke up and found that you were gone, I was terrified that you'd… that…" He clamped his mouth shut, and Neil thought he saw tears in his eyes. "Tell me why you left."

Neil shrugged, looking away, but Eames jostled him a bit and forced him to turn his gaze back. "Tell me why you left, Neil," he said sternly.

"I… I don't know," Neil said softly. "I just… I didn't want to be there anymore… I didn't really see the point."

"Is this what you think Wendy would have wanted? For you to be drinking yourself to death?" Eames asked.

"Yeah, well… I'd ask her, but she's dead," Neil said, and it literally felt like the words had splintered his throat.

Eames's expression started to lean more towards concerned than angry (though the anger was still most definitely there). "Neil… you can't blame yourself for what happened to her. It was a stray bullet. It could have hit anyone."

"It would have buried itself into the fucking wall if I hadn't brought her along," Neil replied. "You told me not to bring her with us, but I did anyway, so you tell me why it's not my fault."

Eames fell silent.

"That's what I thought," Neil said, and he shoved Eames out of the way. Eames didn't fight him this time, but he did fall into step behind him.

"Neil, please," Eames said. "Just talk to me. I know you're hurting, and I know that's why you're self-destructing. Trust me, I know what it feels like to lose someone you love."

Neil rounded on Eames, shoving a finger into his face. "No. No, you _don't_ ," he growled. "You lost that guy you liked, but you never had a soul mate like I did. It wasn't your fault that he fucking died. Don't pretend like you have even an _inkling_ as to how I feel right now."

Eames sagged a little, expression now more somber than anything. "Neil… she wouldn't want to see you this way. She wouldn't want you to give up on your life and your plans because of her. She wouldn't want you to suffer."

"Yeah? Well, I _am_ ," Neil said, voice shaking and cracking traitorously. "I'm suffering, and even if she wouldn't want me to, I deserve it. Wendy died, and now I'm _alone_. I'm alone and it's all my fault… If my subconscious had been normal—if _I_ had been normal, the job would have gone off without a hitch, but I ruined it, and that's why it happened."

Neil's vision blurred as his eyes welled with tears, but he stubbornly tried to hold back on them. He still had at least some dignity… Well, no, the truth was that he didn't want the flood of hurt to be let out from behind the wall he'd built. He'd lost all of his dignity the night he'd woken up in his own sick, he figured.

"Fine," Eames said, took a deep breath, and then grabbed Neil's shoulders. "Then blame it on _me_. It's my fault… If we're going to talk about what ifs, then the fact of the matter is that if I had never brought you back to mine on the night we met, then this never would have happened. I'll take the responsibility… Just don't keep doing this to yourself. I can't stand it."

Neil looked at his feet, and when he blinked he saw a teardrop splat on the ground. Then he found himself being tugged into Eames's arms, and he couldn't fight it even if he wanted to. He just leaned against the man, face buried into his shoulder, and he cried.

"I just want Wendy back," he whimpered. "She was my best friend… and she was always the one telling me to be safe… I should have kept her safe… I should have been the one to die… She's worth so much more than I ever was… I'm just a body… but she had a heart."

He could tell by the way Eames squeezed him that he didn't believe Neil's words, but he was thankful that he didn't try to reassure him at the moment. He doubted it would have done anything to help.

"Please talk to me, Neil," Eames said softly. "Please."

Neil shook his head. "No… you wouldn't understand…"

"Neil…" Eames said, petting his hair. "I would, I promise."

"No… you wouldn't…"

There was a moment of hesitation, and then Eames said, "I know about Brian."

That definitely got Neil's attention. He stepped back from Eames, staring at him with wide, wet eyes. "Wh… what? What do you mean?"

"The night before… _it_ happened," Eames said, looking progressively more guilty as he spoke, "she… Wendy told me… I mean, she didn't give me all the details, but…" He pursed his lips, sniffed. "She told me about him and… your baseball coach."

"She… she promised not to tell anyone about that," Neil said hoarsely. He wasn't even angry so much as just _shocked_.

"She thought that I could help you," Eames said, and this time he was the one who broke eye contact. "She wanted me to know what I was dealing with. I think she was testing me to see if I was… worth it. Maybe she thought that I wouldn't stick around if I knew the truth, but… I don't care about that. Well, no, that's not the way to put it because I _do_ care… but I'm not disgusted by you. I can't say I completely understand it, but… I'm not giving up on you. I promised that I wouldn't, and I still want to help… I just… I feel like I owe it to her."

"Well, you don't," Neil said. "There's nothing to be done for a dead woman."

"Yes," Eames agreed solemnly, "but you're still alive, so I feel like there is something to be done for you… because you _are_ more than just a body. If you didn't have love in your heart, you wouldn't feel the need to destroy yourself. You wouldn't be able to feel this guilt and sadness and suffering. I don't know if there's anything I can do, but I'd like to try."

Neil sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. "What exactly do you want to do?" he asked.

"Now that I know what I'm looking for, I want to go into your subconscious and try to repair it."

"And how, pray tell, do you intend to do that?"

"By having you face it head on."

Neil cringed at even the idea of it. "No," he said immediately.

"It's the only way, Neil. It could help you."

"Or _destroy_ me," Neil replied, horrified.

Eames didn't deny it. "That's true," he said, "but you're already doing a pretty fine job of destroying yourself in reality, so what's one more nail in your coffin?"

Neil swallowed hard around the knot in his throat and said nothing.

Eames shrugged. "This is an opportunity, and I'm only asking if you'll take it. If you refuse me, I won't fight you on it. I'll leave you alone if that's what you prefer… but I really hope that you don't tell me to go."

Neil looked up at the sky and then around himself at his current conditions. He looked down at his rumpled, smelly, dirty clothes and his shaking hands and the black crescents under his jagged, chewed-on fingernails. He thought about the nights spent in the clubs, the panic he'd experienced when he'd become lucid enough to feel a stranger ramming into him but not lucid enough to get him to stop. He thought about waking up in the street, seeing this look of contempt on the police officer's face and how Neil couldn't think about anything other than the fact that his mustache had reminded him of Coach's.

He thought about Brian and the way he had cried in his lap that night, the way Brian was shutting himself down and shutting people out. He thought of how Eric had worried and worried about Brian the way Eames was worrying about Neil now.

There was hope for Brian.

…and Neil thought that, just maybe, there was hope for him too.

It would be stupid not to try, at least. He knew that if he refused Eames, Wendy would come back from wherever she was just to kick his ass.

Besides, what else did he have to lose?

"Okay," Neil said softly. "We can… try."


	25. Chapter 25

Eames needed some time to prepare. He informed Neil of this almost as soon as he'd agreed to it, and Neil for one couldn't complain since there was still a very large part of him that did not want to go through with this. All the same, Eames refused to let Neil go back into his shithole apartment, claiming that he didn't want to give Neil the chance to run again (Neil was pretty sure the real reason was because Eames was worried he'd catch tetanus or something), so Neil was made to pack a bag (the same bag he'd taken to Paris) and taken back to Eames's hotel.

It was a different hotel from Eames's last stay, far less glamorous. He'd apparently picked something out in a hurry. Neil figured Eames didn't expect to find him in New York and just put some money down on a room he could stay in for the night. It was clean enough, the bedspread holding an ugly floral pattern while anonymous watercolors hung on the wall in tacky frames. Neil just couldn't help himself.

"I've turned tricks in this hotel before," he said.

Eames didn't respond to that, only glared at him a little. Neil figured they were both still a little mad at each other (even though he wasn't sure Eames had done anything for Neil to actually be angry over).

Neil sat down on the bed and watched Eames mull about the room, tossing his jacket over a chair, pulling out a moleskine to write a note into. "So," Eames said, voice deceptively casual. "When do you want to leave in the morning?"

Neil blinked. "Leave?" he questioned.

Eames met his eyes and said, still speaking lightly, "Yeah. To Kansas."

Neil's eyes widened. "Why do we have to go there?" he asked defensively.

"Oh, how about because the fact that you disappeared after Wendy was killed has sent all of your loved ones into hissy fits thinking you've been kidnapped or something. You're aware there's a missing person alert out for you, yeah?" When Neil didn't say anything to that, Eames continued. "You've got to apologize to your mother, and you need to go see Wendy and apologize to her too. I may not have known her as long as you did, but I'm certain she would consider you a prat for not attending her funeral. Possibly even call you a cunt, I'd imagine."

Neil's shoulders sunk with guilt. It certainly did sound like her. "So, what, I'm twelve-stepping like an alcoholic now? Apologize to all those people I've hurt in the past? You want me to apologize to Brian while I'm at it?"

"It might help," Eames shrugged, "but you're the only one who can decide that… and no, it's not like AA. When I go into your subconscious, I'm not entirely sure how things will go so—"

"I might come back different or… not at all," Neil clarified, "so you… think this could be my last chance. If Neil McCormick disappears then he should go out on a good note. I think your feelings for me have kind of blinded you to what an asshole I am."

"Oh, trust me," Eames spat, "I know how much of an arse you are. I don't love you less, but I certainly don't like you a lot right now."

Neil looked down into his lap, falling silent. He hadn't expected that statement to hurt so much.

"Hey," Eames said, and suddenly he was standing in front of Neil, leaning over him a little. "Let's get you out of those clothes and into a bath, yeah? You reek of alcohol. It might make you feel better."

Neil wanted to tell Eames that nothing could make him feel better because nothing had since Wendy died. The alcohol and drugs and partying had numbed the pain a little, but it always came back as strong as ever. A shower wasn't going to fix it… but he didn't feel like arguing anymore, so he just lifted his arms and let Eames tug his stained t-shirt off of his body. Eames didn't comment on how Neil could obviously undress himself, instead focusing on undoing his belt and jeans and letting them slide off of his narrow hips, tugging off his shoes when the fabric got to his ankles.

"There we are," Eames said, putting the old clothes over the arm of the chair opposite his blazer. "I'll call in for some delivery too. You're so thin."

Neil didn't move from the bed though, still looking down into his lap. His bare ass on the duvet reminded him of how many times he had been brought to places like this and undressed, how he'd been cooed over with little affectionate words like 'beautiful' or desired by hungry men who didn't have time to waste on pet names. He'd fucked people or been sucked off, been annoyingly cuddled or immediately sent away. He'd had arguments over payment, been offered a cup of coffee on the way home. Regardless of how the night went or how the john treated him, it didn't change the situation. He'd been a whore providing a service and was forgotten about as soon as he was out the door… and still even _that_ had been less depraved than getting so drunk or high that he couldn't remember his own name and getting fucked for free by faceless men in a dirty club bathroom stall.

He thought of Zeke momentarily, of the purple-black blotches on his skin, and it made Neil shiver.

Wendy would be ashamed, he thought.

"All right, come on," Eames said gently and helped Neil to stand. "Come on, love."

Neil let Eames lead him into the bathroom, wincing a little when he turned the light on. Eames had this look on his face that Neil couldn't fully identify. It definitely wasn't one most men had when looking at him naked. In fact it was more similar to the face of someone who had found a stray, starving kitten in the rain. Neil wanted to be angry over it, but he didn't have the energy.

Then Eames turned on the shower.

The fear that rocketed up Neil's spine wasn't quite expected, but as soon as the water hit the bottom of the tub he was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was in a bathroom with a man. One of the many memories he'd been trying to build walls around and numb away came back, ripping him open like it was happening now. He could see the man thundering towards him, feel the blunt blow of the butter knife to his skull and the subsequent harder one of the porcelain of the tub, could hear him screaming the word _slut_ again and again and again.

Neil scrambled for the bathroom door and Eames dove after him, grabbing him around the waist and trying to haul him back into the bathroom. Neil held onto the bathroom doorway with more strength than he thought he had, kicking and screaming and begging him not to.

"What is the matter with you?" Eames shouted, seeming more panicked than angry. "Neil, bloody hell—stop squirm—it's a bath!"

"No!" Neil wailed as Eames finally managed to pry him off of the doorway. His arms joined in the struggle for freedom, but Eames had food in his system and probably had slept more often than Neil had lately so the gap between their strength had only widened considerably. "No, no, no, no, no, no," Neil babbled nonsensically as Eames settled him into the tub, sobbing openly, unable to help himself. "Stop… stop…"

Eames turned the shower diverter so that the water poured out of the faucet rather than the showerhead, plugged the drain, and gently started washing Neil's hair while shushing him as kindly as possible. "It's all right," he told him. "It's all right."

Neil slowly calmed down, shivering even though the water was warm and still hiccupping the occasional sob.

It was Eames, he reminded himself. It was Eames, and Eames would never hurt him.

Eames bathed him, scrubbing soap over his ribs and chest, his arms and legs. He had Neil lift himself out of the water so that his ass could be cleaned, and then he proceeded to scoop water out of the tub with his hand and rub it over Neil's skin until the soap was gone. The entire time he talked softly to him about nothing in particular, filling the silence so that Neil had something to focus on rather than his own screaming thoughts.

By the time the bath was done, Neil felt numbed and very far away, standing on the bathmat while Eames dried him with a slightly overly starched towel. "There now," Eames said as he rubbed the towel through Neil's hair. "That's better."

Neil just stared at him for several seconds, gaze distant. He couldn't help but realize that he wasn't on the ground in Brighton Beach and covered in blood. He wasn't freezing from the cold and all alone. He was still in the hotel with Eames, and Eames was giving him a soft and cautious smile and not asking why he'd panicked.

Neil leaned in until he was pressed against Eames. There were damp spots on the man's shirt from the struggle, but neither of them seemed to care at the moment. Eames just wrapped his arms around Neil and held him and Neil just closed his eyes and soaked up his warmth.

* * *

Neil opened his eyes to find himself in a dark room. He was on a bed, that he was sure of, and someone was holding him. For a moment Neil pretended it was Wendy, even though it felt nothing like her. It made him feel happy for just that single second, and then that happiness was doused with overwhelming sadness. He exhaled slowly so as not to burst into tears and pressed himself closer to the body.

 _Eames_.

He remembered now.

He must have passed out after the shower because that was literally the last thing he recalled. He was dressed though, so Eames must have put him into clothes and put him to bed. The clothes didn't feel like his own though. They were much too big.

As Neil sat up in bed, he felt the body next to him shift, and a few moments later Eames's voice shattered the silence of the room, still soft and laced with sleep. "All right?" he asked.

"Yeah," Neil said, fighting not to lean back into Eames when the man sat up and put his warm hands on his shoulders, rubbing them gently. "What time is it?"

"Mm…" Eames hummed as he checked the clock on his side of the bed. "About two-thirty. I ordered a pizza earlier. There's still some pieces left if you want some."

Neil scrubbed his hands over his face before crawling out of bed, figuring he might as well eat. He hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday.

Eames turned the lamp on by his bed, flooding the room with a dim, warm light. Neil now saw that he was wearing a baggy gray t-shirt and dark cotton boxer shorts, both of which seemed to be Eames's. Both articles of clothing were well-worn and soft to the touch from many washes.

"No offense, but all of your clothes smelled ghastly," Eames said from the bed. "I'd have washed them for you, but I'm afraid I don't have any detergent."

"Don't worry about it," Neil mumbled, opening the pizza box on the table by the window and grabbing a slice. It was cold by now, but Neil didn't really taste it anyway. "About earlier…" he started to say.

"Forget it," Eames told him. "I just figured you were a bit delirious. You really don't look like you've slept or eaten in days."

"I haven't," Neil said around a mouthful of food, then paused to swallow. "Didn't really feel like it…" He was grateful he didn't have to explain himself. He didn't know what Eames would think if he knew. Besides, that was a secret not even Wendy knew about.

He finished off the slice, gnawing on the slightly rubbery crust until it was completely gone, wiped his hands and mouth on a napkin, and returned to the bed. He actually did feel a little less shitty with some food in his belly, surprisingly enough, but he was beginning to suspect that Eames's presence helped a little bit.

The blankets were pulled up around them and the light was turned off, and Neil was just about to drift off to sleep again when Eames asked him, "Really… why did you leave? Why did you leave me that night?"

He didn't sound angry anymore, didn't even sound like he expected an answer.

Neil hesitated as he tried to decide what the best way to word this would be. He hadn't really thought about it, hadn't really allowed himself to, but here in the darkness of the room it felt like all lies were now pointless. Eames already knew about Brian, knew about Coach. Wendy had had enough faith to believe Eames would stick around with Neil after knowing that information and not even out of pity but because of genuine affection.

"I didn't…" Neil started, stopped, and started again. "I didn't want you to… I…" Eames's hand was rubbing small circles into his back, causing Neil to sigh. "I couldn't keep Wendy safe. I caused her death by keeping her close to me… I figured that… everyone was better off if they were as far from me as possible."

Eames didn't say anything, but he did press a kiss to Neil's forehead. Neil figured it did sound a little stupid now. Eames worked the same job that Neil did after all.

"I don't want to go back to sleep," Neil whispered. "I'll wake up screaming."

"I'll be here to hold off the monsters in the dark," Eames assured him. "We've got to get up in about four hours or so anyway to catch our flight, so try and get some rest. Even if you can only sleep a few more minutes, it will do you some good."

"Eames…" Neil said, voice slurring as he started to sink into the warmth and comfort of the bed. "What if tomorrow everyone… what if they hate me…? What if… this whole… fixing my subconscious thing… doesn't work?"

He didn't hear an answer to any of the questions even if Eames had given one because he was out like a light, draped heavily over Eames.

For the rest of the night, he vaguely recalled being shushed back into sleep again and again, and when he awoke around six that morning, his throat was sore from screaming.

* * *

Neil was wearing Eames's clothes because they were clean, even though they practically fell off of his scrawny frame. He felt like a little boy playing dress-up, but he was a bit too caught up in what was happening to care too much. Eames had bought them cups of coffee to sip at while waiting to board their plane, and Neil held his in both hands, watching the other passengers mill about in the waiting area.

There was a little boy sleeping with his head on the shoulder of what Neil assumed was his dad. The boy was wearing a baseball jersey, and his hair was blonde like Brian's.

"So," Neil said, unable to take his eyes off the boy. "Do you think it's fucked up?"

"What is?" Eames asked. The man was a bit haggard this morning himself, probably from trying to calm Neil's night terrors.

"Me. And Coach."

"Oh… well, ah," Eames said, squirming in his seat a bit. "Honestly, I'm not really sure what to say about it. She told me how important he was to you."

"She thought I was misguided in my affections," Neil said, pulling a knee up to his chest. "She never said it out loud, but I know she did…"

"Do you think she was right?" Eames asked. "I mean… you were just a boy."

"I know," Neil said, avoiding answering the question right away, "but… he treated me like his prize. I was special, more important than the others. Even if there were other boys, I was always there. He called me his… angel… and I wanted to make him so proud."

Eames didn't try to devalue Neil's childhood emotions, nor did he respond to the information with confusion or disgust. He merely sat there nodding his head a little, one hand brushing against the back of Neil's neck, listening.

"No one had… ever made me feel that way before," Neil told him. "Like… I was really valuable. I thought that… for him to hold me on such a high pedestal that he must have loved me, but… then I met Brian, and… now I'm not so sure. I don't know what to think… That summer seems tainted now, and I know that sounds fucked up. Brian's memory hangs over it like a dark cloud… and for some reason I can't stop connecting that summer with the other night."

Eames perked up a little, raising an eyebrow. "What other night?" he asked.

Neil's mouth went dry, and he stared at Eames, not sure what to say.

Thankfully, at that moment they announced that they were boarding the plane, and Neil managed to mumble, "It's nothing, forget about it," before they got on board.

Eames spent the flight doodling something in his moleskine (it looked like a maze, and Neil wondered if Eames was constructing one for Neil's subconscious), and Neil looked out the window and thought about what he was going to say when they touched down in his hometown.

He honestly didn't know if anyone would speak to him at this point… but he did know that maybe now he owed some of these people the truth.

There was a possibility that this was Neil McCormick's last day anyway, so he figured there wasn't any reason not to.


	26. Chapter 26

Hutchinson was warmer but otherwise exactly the same as last time. Neil's feelings towards it had only soured though, leaving him a bundle of nauseous nerves. Even standing on the ground of the place made him feel woozy and unsteady, a disproportionate weight of things he had to say hanging over him.

The last time he'd come here, Wendy had been waiting for him back in New York. Now Wendy was waiting for him here, and Neil could only wish she wasn't. He steadied himself somehow, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He still thought it was a miracle that he didn't vomit in the cab.

Eames was surprisingly silent through the whole thing, clearly deep in thought over what the next few days were going to bring. Neil couldn't help but wonder if Eames was afraid. There was a very, very real possibility that he would screw this up and Neil would be changed or gone forever. If Eames cared about him as much as he said he did, Neil imagined that would be pretty terrifying. He certainly wouldn't have wanted to be in Eames's shoes by any means.

As the taxi pulled onto Monroe Street, Neil could see his mother's house. Eric's car was parked outside of it. The left taillight was smashed and paint peeled off around it. He'd been in an accident since the last time Neil had been there.

"I don't want to do this," Neil said, not realizing he was shaking until Eames took his hand. "Don't make me do this, Eames. There's no point. They're going to be mad at me. They're not going to want to see me now."

"Neil," Eames said gravely. "You need to do this."

Neil appreciated that Eames didn't try to reassure him over what would happen because the truth was that neither of them were sure. This could all be a hideous disaster, but Eames was right about the fact that it needed to happen. Whether it went well or not, Neil knew this might just be his last chance to see his mother or Eric. It was odd how that fact put things in perspective.

The cab pulled to a stop at the curb and Neil got out. He brushed his fingers through his scraggly hair, pushing it off of his forehead in an attempt to at least look somewhat presentable, and then he looked at Eames. "How do I look?" he asked flatly.

"Like you're about to puke."

"Oh, great, that's what I was going for," Neil joked, but even his smirk lacked the energy it needed to be effective.

"Hey," Eames said, squeezing Neil's shoulder. "You're not alone in this, all right? I'm not going to throw you to the wolves and leave."

"I'm just glad you didn't take me to Wendy first," Neil mumbled gloomily and made his way to the door. "I just… I don't know if I can…" he trailed off and shook himself out before knocking.

There was a moment or two of silence and Neil started to think that they'd taken the Impala and gone somewhere, but then the doorknob was twisting and he and Eames were soon staring directly into the face of—

Brian Lackey.

Neil thought that he floated out of his body for a second, thought that he surely must have been dreaming. He wanted to look around and make sure that he hadn't blacked out and woken up on the doorstep in Little River, but he couldn't take his eyes off of the boy who had been haunting his dreams, the boy who had quite literally bludgeoned him to death with an aluminum bat. Brian looked equally shocked to see him, lips slightly parted, eyes like saucers. He looked better than he had the last time Neil had seen him, his hair freshly buzzed and his glasses updated to some slightly smaller frames. He'd put on a little bit of weight, but he still seemed tired and worn. He looked better than Neil at least.

"What are you doing here?" Neil asked, voice hoarse. He had the urge to reach out and touch the boy to see if he was real, but he refrained.

"I feel like I should be asking you that," Brian said softly. "Where the hell have you been?"

"It's a long story," Neil said. "Let me in?" If he hadn't been so weary and so hesitant about this trip in the first place, Neil probably would have been raging over the fact that he had to ask to be let into his own mother's house.

Brian left the door open as he turned and walked away, his movements slow and measured like he'd been hypnotized. "Eric?" Brian called out. "Mrs. McCormick? You might—just—hello?"

Neil stepped inside, shivering a little even though it wasn't nearly so bitingly cold. The house looked the same, save for the trash. Neil noticed a few empty bottles of alcohol strewn about. He wondered if his mother had fallen off the wagon again, if his disappearance had been the cause. He was tempted to lean back against Eames, but instead he just focused on the warmth that radiated off of his body behind him.

Ellen McCormick and Eric both came sauntering out of the kitchen, looking confused. They saw Brian first, but then they saw Neil, and for a long moment the air stilled.

Then, Ellen screamed, instantly bursting into tears, and the next thing Neil knew he was in her arms. He had never heard his mother cry quite like this, never felt her tremble in his arms. She'd always seemed like such a presence, so confident and powerful and fun, but at that moment she felt small. Her hair was grayer than he'd remembered, but whether that had happened while he was gone or if he hadn't noticed was up to debate. He ran his fingers through it anyway, his expression blank. He really wasn't sure how to respond.

After a moment, she released him from her tight, squeezing hold, but she didn't back away. Her hands found their way to his chest and one fist weakly punched him there. It was almost like she knew she was supposed to be angry, but she just couldn't find the rage in her bones. "Oh, Neil… it's Neil, it's my baby," she babbled and finally stepped back so that she could look at his face, cupping it in both hands.

She had aged, or perhaps Neil was just now noticing it. Her eyelashes were clumped together with tears, face ruddy and nose running a bit. It didn't matter. She was so beautiful.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he managed to croak, and then he was in her arms again, feeling her hands stroke through his hair and down his back. "I can explain, I really can."

"It doesn't matter right now," she said. "You're here. That's the important part. God, honey, you're so thin. Are you hungry? Eric and I were making an early dinner. I—oh, it's still in the oven. Come on, come on into the kitchen and sit down. You feel like you're about to drop. Come on."

Neil was all but carried into the kitchen, Eames falling in behind them but keeping his distance. Neil chanced a glance over his shoulder to see Eric look at Eames for some sort of explanation, but the man wasn't talking. This was Neil's job now.

Neil sank into the familiar chair, a little relieved to find the kitchen was a mess too but didn't sport the alcohol bottles the living room did. Ellen didn't smell of booze either, so he hoped that maybe that meant everything was okay and he hadn't destroyed her life as well. He watched as she pulled out what looked to be a Mexican lasagna, one of her favorite recipes that she'd picked up after the twelve-stepping. She had never been a chef, but it smelled so good that Neil wanted to cry.

…but perhaps that was because it was his mother's food.

A plate was set before him within seconds with a crookedly-carved piece of the meal as well as a handful of tortilla chips. She also brought him a fork and a knife and a tall glass of pink lemonade. "Oh, my sweet darling, Neil," she said, eyes wet again as she stroked her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead. "My baby is home. He's okay. God, I was so worried. I thought' I'd never see you again. Oh, eat, Neil, honey. You need to eat. I can see your cheekbones."

Neil did start to eat, feeling his mother pressed up against his side, hand continuously moving through his hair, down to his shoulder, across the back of his neck. She couldn't stop touching him and couldn't stop saying his name when she spoke. Neil was starting to wish he'd come back sooner.

He watched Eric move about the room, awkwardly putting pieces of the lasagna onto paper plates and handing one to Brian and one to Eames and then getting one for himself. It should have been funny, watching Eric still attempt to be a good host despite the insane circumstances, but it wasn't. Brian was still watching Neil, had been since he'd come inside pretty much, and Neil wondered what was going on inside the boy's head.

He'd punched him the last time they'd seen each other, and Brian had said he'd never wanted to see Neil again… and yet, here he was at his mother's house. It was confusing.

Soon enough the entire table was crowded with people, Eames and Eric having to grab chairs from the patio to sit on. All eyes were on Neil as though he was supposed to jump up on the table and perform. He just kept staring at his half-eaten meal, pushing it around with his fork.

"Neil," Eric finally piped up after too long. "Where have you been?"

Neil looked up at Eric momentarily and then back down at the table. "Drinking myself to death in New York," he mumbled.

Eric scoffed. "Don't joke about that kind of shit, Neil."

"I'm not," Neil replied bluntly, and once again the table fell into silence.

"Honey," Ellen said after his statement sank in.

"Don't worry about it. I'm fine," Neil said, waving it off before any of them could say anything about it. "Eames found me and basically told me to get my shit together."

For the first time since they'd arrived Ellen seemed to acknowledge Eames was even there. The man didn't seem offended by the blindness, considering she'd just gotten her son back. "Oh…" she said.

Another awkward pause filled the room as someone tried to think up something to say. Neil could feel everyone avoiding the elephant in the room, and that was more unbearable than the fact itself, so he just came out with it. "So, how was the funeral?" he asked glibly.

Neil saw rage tighten Eric's frame at the carelessness of the comment, but he'd always had a better handle on his anger than people gave him credit for. "If you had been there, you would've known," Eric said.

Neil stared back at him, positive that the tension between them could have been sliced and served on toast.

"You should have been there," Eric said, face screwing up into an expression somewhere between a sneer and a sob. "She was your best friend and out of all the people that were there you should have been in the front goddamned row, you know that?"

"Yeah," Neil replied without hesitance. "I do. I do know that. I couldn't come."

"What, Mr. Fancy New Job couldn't afford to get his ass on a plane and make the trip?"

"No," Neil replied softly. "I couldn't come because it's my fault that she's dead, and I didn't feel like I deserved that spot anymore. I elected instead to wallow in my own misery."

Eric jumped to his feet then, fingers clenching and unclenching on the tabletop. "It's _your_ fault?" he shouted, horrified and angry and hurt all at the same time.

Neil didn't feel like there was a point in lying now, so he just nodded weakly. "Yeah," he mumbled. "I brought her with me to Paris because that was where me and Eames were working… she wouldn't have been there if it weren't for me, and she'd still be alive."

Some of the fight drained out of Eric, but not all of it. "What kind of fucking work are you doing where innocent bystanders get shot, huh? Why didn't you prevent it?"

"Do you think if I could have I wouldn't have tried?" Neil asked, surprised by the vulnerability in his own voice. "Do you really think I would have just let Wendy die? Really?"

The rest of the angers slid off of Eric's shoulders. "No," he said weakly.

Neil looked over at Eames who had been watching the exchange uncomfortably. "You can explain it better than me," Neil said. "Could you?"

Eames sighed, offering a small nod before saying, "What we do isn't, strictly speaking, legal. We're criminals. We steal information."

"So… what, you're like some kind of spy?" Eric asked, slowly sinking back into his own chair.

"Not exactly," Eames said. "Very powerful people hire groups of us to infiltrate the minds of their enemies or whoever they need us to and extract their secrets. We use a machine called the PASIV device to go into their subconscious and dig up the dirt we need on them. It's all very complicated, but that's the basic gist. We refer to it as mind crime. We share dreams together, quite literally."

"Wendy wasn't working with us," Neil murmured. "She just wanted to see Paris. I never thought that she'd get caught up in it… but my subconscious ruined the job, and the guy we were stealing thoughts from found us… It was a stray bullet. I didn't even have time to react, I… I never meant for it to happen. I can't stop thinking about how it should have been me and not her. It isn't fair that it happened to her."

Neil looked up at everyone at the table: his mother still by his side and stroking his back, Eric looking more brokenhearted than anything, Eames seeming to feel the odd man out, and Brian who had been strangely silent throughout the whole thing.

"I'm sorry," Neil said softly. "For everything."

Neil couldn't remember apologizing for anything in his life, or at least couldn't remember meaning it. The regret he felt in that moment for all of them at the table and the one person who couldn't be was so strong he was nearly smothered by it. He could only hope that they could understand the sheer weight of that apology, that he knew those four words didn't suffice but were the only ones he could think of to even come close.

The only other time Neil had felt this apologetic was that night in Coach's house with Brian crying in his lap, but he hadn't been able to speak then.

No one said anything, and Neil wasn't sure if that was because they didn't understand the gravity of his apology or because they didn't know what to say.

Neil swallowed around the lump in his throat and decided to move forward on his own. "My subconscious isn't in a good place… Eames says I have the talent for the job, but… I'm out of control. It's just gotten worse and worse. I can't sleep anymore unless I wear myself out to the point of collapse. I wake up screaming or I get up and go places without my knowledge. Eames is going to try to go down into my subconscious and fix it, but…"

"But what?" Eric asked, seeming to be the only one brave enough to do so.

"It might not work," Neil replied. "I might wake up different, or… I might not wake up at all. I might wake up in worse shape than now and have to be thrown into the loony bin, I don't know."

Neil could see his mother tense out of the corner of his eye, could sense that she was attempting not to cry again.

"I… I just got you back though," she said shakily. "Now you're telling me I might lose you again? This time forever?"

"I'm sorry," Neil said, not able to look her in the eyes. "If I don't do this though, it's guaranteed. I can't live this way anymore."

"This… this is all my fault, isn't it?" she said suddenly, and Neil looked at her with shock.

"What? No!"

"It is," she said, nodding. "I wasn't there to take care of you when you were little. Maybe if I'd been around more nothing bad would have happened. Something bad happened to you, didn't it, Neil?"

He didn't answer, instead letting her fall back into his arms and cry. He looked at everyone sitting around the table and started to suspect that everyone knew what had taken place that summer at Coach's house. They had all come to the answer one way or another.

"It'll be okay, Mom," Neil whispered reassuringly even though he didn't know if that was true. He wanted to believe it at least, and he knew he'd already made her suffer far more than enough. "Everything will be all right. Eames is really good at this stuff. He's going to do everything he can to help me."

"I don't want to lose you," she whimpered, and he kissed the top of her head.

He wished he could tell her that she wouldn't, but he didn't want to lie anymore.

"I have to go see Wendy," he told her instead. "I'll go see Wendy, and we'll spend the rest of the night hanging out, okay? We'll rent a movie or just watch crappy T.V. shows or whatever. We'll buy tubs of ice cream and eat until we throw up."

She sniffed and nodded, no longer able to speak.

"I just have to go see Wendy first," he told her again and slowly but surely managed to pry himself free from her grip. "I'll be back, okay? I promise that I'll be back."

"I'll drive him," Eric volunteered. "That way there's no chance he'll get away."

"I'm coming too," Brian suddenly piped up, and all eyes turned towards him.

Neil just nodded.

"I'll stay," Eames said softly, and Neil could hear just in those two little words that Eames didn't want Neil's mother to be left alone like this.

Eames really was a better guy than Neil deserved, but he hoped one day he could live up to that standard.

"We'll be back soon," Neil said, kissed his mother again and started for the door.

As an afterthought, he turned and kissed Eames too.


	27. Chapter 27

Neil picked up a bouquet of flowers on the way to the grave site. It was different types of bright and beautiful flowers, a conglomerate of different ones Neil was sure Wendy would pretend not to like but actually would love. They smelled sweetly, but mostly they just made Neil's eyes burn.

Wendy's grave was near the back of the cemetery, her headstone sitting in the dirt with her name printed across it in all capital letters. WENDY PETERSON. BELOVED DAUGHTER AND FRIEND.

Neil wanted to spit on it, knowing her parents had probably had it carved that way. They had always had problems with Wendy, who she hung out with, how she dressed. They couldn't even care enough to bring her home for Christmas. They had probably been glad to be rid of her when she ran off to New York and only now felt guilty about that.

The wind ruffled Neil's hair and broke a few petals off of the flowers he'd brought, carrying them across the grass. He watched them go, swallowing the bile that rose up in his throat.

This cold marble stone wasn't Wendy. She would have hated it, would have wanted something more glamorous and cool. She had never made any plans though. She had been too young to even think about that sort of thing… and Neil had been the reason she was gone now, six feet under to one day be completely forgotten about except for the occasional passerby who would whisper, "Oh, look how young she was."

Neil sat down at the foot of her grave, pulling his knees up to his chest. He thought about those zombie movies he and Wendy and Eric had always liked to watch, how they would come clawing their way out of their graves, moaning and in search of dinner. Wendy had always proclaimed that she had better sense than to become a zombie, that she would be the one at the end of the movie who was alive. Neil had believed that, knowing how resourceful she was. He just wished that she would come back, even if she was a zombie. He would let her devour his flesh for causing her death to start with, and then they could be together again. The world just didn't feel right without her in his peripheral. He knew it was selfish, but he still needed her, and it just wasn't fair.

He'd never been the most selfless person anyway.

"Hey, Eric," Neil heard from behind him. "Can you give us a few minutes?"

There was a mumbled reply and then Neil heard Eric sauntering away, sniffling. A moment later Brian was sitting down next to Neil, mirroring the way he was sitting.

"So," Brian said.

"Yeah," Neil replied glumly.

Silence passed between them.

"I'm sorry I punched you," Neil offered.

"I know why you did," Brian responded, surprisingly. "I was out of line to… to say what I did. I misunderstood, and I was really angry, and I just wanted to… blame someone I could see face to face."

Neil glanced at him, noticed that Brian's gaze was very far away. Without asking, Neil just knew he was replaying those memories, probably did all the time. He had caused those as well. He had all but murdered Brian too, hadn't he? The boy looked like he might have been on the mend, but there was definitely permanent damage.

"I should have tried to stop him," Neil said. "I should have just left you at the baseball field. I shouldn't have pointed you out—"

"What's done is done," Brian replied, picking up a pebble and rolling it around in his hand, staring at the ground. "You just wanted to please him. I think he might have had you brainwashed."

Neil couldn't help but tense at that, a knee-jerk reaction to defend the man.

Brian turned his gaze on Neil and said, "You wanted to believe he loved you… but you don't pay people that you love to touch you. You don't manipulate people you love to do things for them… That's not love."

Neil felt tears well in his eyes, but he didn't let them fall. "So, what is love then? If you're so wise?"

Brian just shook his head, looking back into that unfathomable distance. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's probably different for everyone. For me, it's… someone who makes those memories not hurt so much just by being close by."

Neil couldn't help but immediately think of Eames.

"Yeah, I guess that works," Neil said, looking into that distance with Brian to see what he could see. "It doesn't matter though. It doesn't matter that I was _brainwashed_ or whatever. I'm still sorry."

"I'm sorry too," Brian mumbled, "about your friend."

Neil sniffed and realized there were tears on his face. He didn't bother to wipe them away. "So, you went to the funeral."

"Yeah," Brian said. "For Eric. He was a mess, and I figured that since I'd been torturing him for months before that I owed him some support. She was really beautiful. They had her lips all painted red like an old movie star, and her hair was brushed and laying against her shoulders. She even had rouge on her cheeks. She looked alive, looked like she was just sleeping."

Neil made a small sound, and suddenly his head was on Brian's shoulder… and Brian, this person that Neil barely knew, this boy that had only associated with Neil under the most unfortunate of circumstances, put his arm around Neil and held him while he cried. Brian petted Neil's hair and stayed silent just like Neil had that night, and Neil could feel how apologetic Brian was even though he hadn't been involved.

For the second time in his life, Neil wished that he could disappear, leave behind this pain and grief and fucked up suffering. He wanted to escape from the terrible mistakes he'd made, to go back in time and save himself, save Brian, save Wendy.

There was nothing he could do though.

All he could hope for now was that fresh start that Wendy had so desperately wanted for him.

He really didn't want to be Neil McCormick anymore.

* * *

The drive back to Neil's house was quiet but a bit more relaxed than the drive there. Eric seemed to notice that whatever bad blood had been between Neil and Brian was now gone. Neil knew they weren't quite friends, he and Brian, but he knew they would always share a connection. If this dive into his subconscious erased absolutely everything that he once had been, he knew he would still be linked with Brian.

Eric stopped at the grocery store and picked up tubs of ice cream and snagged a few different movies from the video rental store. He apparently had every intention of making sure Neil did what he said he was going to do.

From there it was back to Monroe Street where they found Eames and Neil's mother outside, sharing a cigarette while they waited for their group to return. When Neil got out of the car he didn't go directly towards the house, instead going back into his mother's arms. He figured he should get as much of it in as he could before tomorrow. They all went inside together, it seeming to be an unspoken agreement that Brian and Eric were staying.

Nobody talked about what was going to happen even though it hung over all of them like a heavy black cloud. Neil was pretty sure that all of them, himself included, had mastered the task of pretending nothing was wrong, so everyone still seemed to be able to enjoy the festivities. Sometime around midnight they ordered a pizza and devoured it within ten minutes, and then there was beer drinking (everyone but Ellen who was apparently twelve-stepping again) and more ice cream. Honestly Neil felt like vomiting, but he was content to be sitting on the floor with his head between Eames's knees, letting the man brush his hair back off of his forehead. Even though he knew that this only continued because ending it would mean facing the future, Neil couldn't find it in him to mind too much.

He still wished Wendy could have been there.

Around three a.m., Eric rolled a joint and passed it around, all of them lazing in front of the television as infomercials chattered on about their amazing new products. Neil's mom had never cared about weed smoking and even took a puff or two herself, but for once Neil didn't want it. He'd lost his taste for the drugs and alcohol after using them in such excess after Wendy's untimely end. He was physically drooping by then, his words slurring together even though he'd only had one or two beers. He was absolutely exhausted.

The joint burned away and the laughter died. Brian was dozing with his head in Eric's lap. The sun would probably be up in an hour or so, Neil thought.

…and he also thought about what Brian had said earlier, the thing about love. The people Brian loved didn't take the memories away, but they dulled the sting of the blow. Neil couldn't help but remember how much better he felt when Eames took care of him, how Eames soothed the ache in a way that no amount of drugs or alcohol or sex could do. He remembered how Wendy's presence had made Neil's life easier since she never judged him for his past. Eric had been around as much as possible after Wendy had left for New York, keeping Neil from being alone with his thoughts. His mother had instantly attempted to take all of Neil's guilt and put it on herself because she didn't want him to suffer. Brian had held him at the grave even though out of all the people Neil didn't deserve it from it was Brian.

There, sitting in that room just before dawn, Neil could still feel the pain and the sadness, but in that moment it wasn't overwhelming him. Eames's hand in his hair was enough to keep the dark thoughts at bay.

He looked around the room to find that everyone had drifted off to sleep, his mother's head against Eames's shoulder, Eric's lolled back against the coffee table in a rather undignified way, Eames's chin tilted down onto his chest.

Neil let a small, sad smile tug at his lips, and he whispered, "I love you," to none of them in particular.

* * *

Neil chain smoked an entire pack of cigarettes throughout the early morning since he didn't want to fall asleep. He left everyone in the living room to return to his bedroom and found himself looking through all of the things he'd ever owned, everything that had helped to mold him into Neil McCormick.

Baseball trophies and old photographs and tapes with Coach's voice. Porno magazines and small stacks of bills and a fake I.D.. Thrift store t-shirts. A photograph of Wendy that she'd penned her name onto like a movie star. Ticket stubs. Receipts.

Neil might have moved to New York months ago, and he might vanish after Eames went digging around in his brain, but he realized that no matter what happened to him, he would always still be here in this room. This was where his tome was written; this was the everlasting museum to Neil McCormick and his life. Everything that he had kept had some sort of significance, even if it was lost on him now.

For a moment he fantasized that millions of years after he was gone, archaeologists would come across the remains of this house and find Neil's things, that they would write their own stories about who he had been and what he had done. Perhaps they would think he was something great. Maybe they would think he was a baseball player.

It was a stupid thought. He knew that eventually someone else would probably move into this house, lots of different people would, and the house might even eventually be torn down. He knew these things would all be worn away or tossed out at some point. People who hung onto everything eventually ran out of room, after all.

It was ridiculous, but he liked the idea, so he kept it.

To make his mark, he dug out a pen from one of his drawers, and he slipped into the closet where he scrawled on the wall, _Here lies Neil McCormick. His body is still alive, but who the hell knows what became of the rest of him?_

He snorted and tossed the pen aside, patting the wall almost affectionately as he exited the closet. Eames was waiting for him in the doorway, still looking a bit drowsy.

"Morning," Eames said.

"Yes, it is," Neil replied blandly.

Eames looked around the room, taking a few steps further inside. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Well, I haven't slept since before we left for Hutchinson and my best friend is dead, but overall a little bit better than I have," Neil said and shut his bedroom door so that the two of them were sealed off from the rest of the house. "You?"

"Not quite sure how to describe it," Eames said, turning around to face Neil. "A little nervous and afraid… hopeful… cautiously optimistic?"

"You don't have to do this," Neil told him softly. "You can use my money to hire other people to go into my head."

"Not a chance," Eames responded assuredly. "I owe this to you. I created this mess that's going on inside your head by stupidly assuming that it would all work itself out. I should have tried to help you from the beginning."

"Don't be an idiot. I never would have let you help me from the beginning." Neil playfully shoved Eames's shoulder, and Eames gave him a halfhearted smile. They both knew it was true. "Before we do this… how about one more time? You and me, um, on the bed."

Eames carded his fingers through Neil's hair, scratched at his scalp. "That's the first time I've been offered sex from a mark."

"It might be our last chance."

Eames's expression just barely shifted towards one of pain, and Neil knew that he was holding back on it for his sake. "I'm not entirely sure about that." He kissed Neil's forehead, his cheek, his lips. "If you fall into Limbo, I'm going after you, you hear me?"

Neil let his tongue slide along Eames's bottom lip and then pressed his lips to the corner of Eames's mouth. "If you do that, I'll kill you," he told Eames. "Don't give up your life and your future just because of me."

"See, there's the problem," Eames told him, unbuttoning Neil's shirt while trailing kisses down his neck. "I don't think I'd very much like to see my life and future without you being a part of it in some sense. Even if I can't have you like this, I want you there."

Eames's fingers were cold and shaking a little as they slipped across Neil's skin, touching as much of him as they could.

"The thing is," Eames continued, voice never faltering despite the fact that Neil could feel the fear and uncertainty in his hands, "you keep thinking that you're just somebody, but to me you're much more than that."

"Your prize?" Neil guessed, voice erring on the side of sarcasm despite himself.

"No," Eames said, stepping back to look into Neil's eyes, "if you were a prize, that would imply you were an object and not the incredible human being I see before me."

"I'm not incredible, Eames," Neil said honestly. "I mean, if you'd told me that a few months ago, I would have agreed with you, but we both know it's not true. I might not be ordinary, but I'm not incredible."

"What would you use to describe yourself then?" Eames asked, slowly dropping to his knees to work at Neil's belt. Neil didn't feel powerful with Eames kneeling before him, not like with the johns of the past. He didn't feel like the king he used to feel like.

"What word I would use?" Neil clarified, eyelids drooping a bit as Eames pulled down his trousers and kissed his bare hip. "I don't know… probably… damaged."

Eames stood and Neil stepped out of the clothes that had bunched around his ankles. "Damaged works," Neil continued, "and undeserving is another good one, but… you know? I think I know the perfect word to describe me."

"And that would be?" Eames purred, pressing a kiss just behind Neil's ear.

"Arthur," he replied and felt Eames smile against his skin.

"Well, I like that much more than 'damaged' or 'undeserving'."

Neil toppled onto the bed, taking Eames with him, and then he proceeded to undress Eames as quickly as he could manage. He wanted to feel his skin against Eames's, to memorize it now in case he forgot. "I'm wrong," he told Eames as he skidded his hands over his chest and stomach. "Damaged and undeserving doesn't describe Arthur at all. In the end, Arthur's just another me that I made up. He's a forgery just like all of the faces you put on."

"For a forgery to be convincing, there has to be truth in it," Eames said and hefted Neil off so that he could roll on top of him. "You have to believe in it. Arthur is as real as you make him, Neil. You can be him if you want to be."

Neil wanted to believe that more than anything in the world, but he just couldn't be sure. There was no point in dwelling on it though since the future was pretty up in the air anyway, so instead he just dragged Eames down for a kiss and rocked his hips against his thigh.

In the end, it wasn't the most exciting fuck, nor was it the most mindblowing orgasm. They didn't have any supplies with them so they ended up rutting against each other more than anything, and both of them were still exhausted and stressed out. It reminded Neil of what he'd heard about teenage virgins fumbling around clumsily. The thought nearly made him laugh.

He stayed settled in Eames's arms after it was over, feeling him breathe softly into his hair, and he drew his name over Eames's chest with his fingertip. "No matter what happens," Neil said to him. "When this is over, you have to wake up, understand? I need someone to make sure Wendy's grave has flowers on it."

There was a moment of hesitation, but then Eames sighed and said, "I understand."

Neil didn't feel himself fall asleep, but he momentarily felt the prick of a needle in his arm. Darkness bled into light, and he opened his eyes to find himself standing on the playground of Carey Park where he'd turned tricks when he was younger. The equipment was rusted and falling apart, the grass dead, litter tumbling across the gravel… and there were holes in the sky like cigarette burns, the sickly smell of city pollution in the air, and patches of the ground stained brown with old blood.

He was dreaming.


	28. Chapter 28

Neil didn't move for several seconds. He couldn't help but be frozen in awe at the state of the world around him. It was nothing like the city he'd managed to build what seemed like so long ago when he'd first went under. Everything was dilapidated and falling apart. The burn marks in the sky (which were the only thing Neil could think to refer to them as) were connected by a web of string thin cracks. A piece actually fell when he took a step forward, slicing into the ground like a shard of gray glass.

This was bad, he knew. He was pretty sure that Eames wasn't doing this, that no architect in their right mind would. He was also sure that this wasn't what Eames had planned in his layouts and mazes. Neil feared that his subconscious had taken on a power and a life all its own. That was definitely worrisome.

He reached out and touched the rusty swing set only to watch it cave in on itself in a cloud of dust. He looked around again and saw no sign of life anywhere, so he started to walk.

As he made his way down the street he discovered that there were burn marks in the street or on the sides of walls as well, the inside of them black and endless. It made the entire world feel as though it had been made of paper, fake and so fragile that he felt that he needed to be cautious where he stepped. The ground hadn't given way under his feet yet though, so he could only hope it was just paranoia.

Neil walked for what felt like miles along stretches of highway littered with trash and abandoned toys. There were crops of cities in the distance, all of them falling apart, and houses that Neil remembered from his childhood in the same condition. He still hadn't seen any projections.

The further he walked the more unstable his subconscious seemed to appear. Buildings started poking their way out of the holes in the skies upside down, and the cracks grew wider and more ominous. The ground stopped becoming littered with trash to be replaced with mutilated bodies, facedown and yet still familiar and none of them were wearing clothes. It was as though his projections had been waging war against each other and had ripped each other apart.

Neil stepped forward and suddenly the ground crumbled beneath him. He didn't even manage to scream before he landed rather gracelessly on the floor of Coach's house.

He looked up where he'd fallen and found that he couldn't see the light.

He got up, grunting at the twinge of pain in his back, kicked a game cartridge out of the way. The house wasn't suffering from the blemishes the world up above was. In fact it looked nearly identical to Neil's memory of the place except for the mess. It appeared as if someone had ransacked the place in search of something. Neil was just wondering what they could possibly looking for when he heard a rustling of fabric as someone moved into the room.

Neil flung himself around, momentarily panicking as he thought that he would come face to face with Coach, but instead he found himself looking at a rather jumpy Eames. " _Oh_ , oh, God… It's just you," Eames said with relief. "Did you fall through the ground?"

Neil just nodded. "Yeah, I… I don't know what happened. Are you all right?"

"Fine," Eames assured him. "I've never seen a subconscious in this state though. The fact that you're fully aware I'm invading your dreams and projections haven't come to rip my skin off is bizarre, and I've never actually gotten to a second dream level without a PASIV device before. The layers of your subconscious are razor thin, I guess. I don't quite know how to explain it."

"Well, everything seems more stable down here," Neil said, looking around.

"For now," Eames said. "What's up there will eventually bleed down to this level, but the destruction will be slower. Right now I'm just sort of wondering how we're going to ride the kick back up."

Neil looked back at the hole he'd fallen through, watched what looked to be a few sprinkles of ash descend from it. "Let's try and focus on repairing all of this, and then maybe the kick won't be a problem," he said softly, though he was sure Eames was pretty lost when it came to solving this as well.

"Well, there's nothing in this house I can use," Eames said, noticeably more uncomfortable than he had been. Neil looked him up and down momentarily and then observed the room again. The photo albums were scattered, one book opened to the pages of Neil's pictures. The tape had been ripped out of the tape deck, brown ribbon folding and tangling amongst the photographs. A quick glance at the kitchen revealed a mess of crunched up cereal on the floor and a few drops of come.

"These are just memories," Neil said, turning away and going towards the front door. He picked up a baseball bat from inside the umbrella stand. "Don't let it bother you too much."

He opened the front door and stepped right out into the streets of New York City—well, technically. The buildings were endlessly taller than Neil remembered, the streets muddled and mazelike. Perhaps this was the city Eames had planned to build on the first level. Projections were moving about, heading off to miscellaneous destinations, and Neil would have found them completely unremarkable were it not for the fact that every last one of them was a middle-aged male. Neil visibly gulped and then pushed forward. "I know what we have to find," he said, even though every part of him wanted to stay as far away from it as possible. "We have to go to the prison, the one with the scratching on the walls."

"Do you think it's here?" Eames asked, squinting into the distance.

"I don't know," Neil admitted. "After the last time… I was so freaked out. The walls I was building just fell apart against my hands, and then I couldn't deal with it and Wendy's death or I probably would have shot myself. I buried it. I think."

The words seemed to come out of Neil against his control, like someone else was saying them. Maybe at this point someone else was.

"Well, let's go see what we can find," Eames said, shrugging.

Neil led the way for a bit, but they both quickly discovered that the sprawling city had no rhyme or reason to it. As time wore on, Neil could see the cracks making their way across the sky above him and could feel Eames growing steadily more concerned. They hadn't found a damned thing.

There was nothing else to do, Neil thought, except ask one of the projections. They seemed to know their way about better than they did.

Neil approached one of the men, even though he felt Eames tense behind him because of it. "Excuse me," Neil said, "do you know how to get to the prison?"

The man turned his eyes on Neil and then grabbed him, expression turning desirous and hungry. "Get the fuck off of me!" Neil shouted, trying to pull away as the bat he had been carrying clattered to the ground. Eames was quick though, scooping up the weapon and smacking it into the skull of the projection, sending him crashing to the ground.

As the body hit the sidewalk, Neil watched a spider web of cracks appear across it as though it was made of thin ice rather than concrete.

"Um, Eames?" Neil managed to say before the ground crumbled beneath him, slowly widening into a massive hole that took the projection's body, Neil, and Eames with it. Neil landed much harder this time, crying out as his front collided with concrete.

For a split second everything was quiet, but then there was a hand in Neil's hair. He thought it must have been Eames at first, but then a different voice asked, "Are you all right, Neil?"

Neil opened his eyes to find he was looking up at Wendy, her make-up done up just like Brian had said it had been. She looked like an angel.

"Wendy?" Neil croaked, pushing himself off of the ground to reach out and touch her face. He discovered then that his arm was caked in blood, and when he looked down he found that he was wearing the same clothes from the night in Brighton Beach, every red stain in the exact place he remembered. A quick survey of his surroundings revealed the neighborhood from the first time he'd dreamed, the tall prison walls looming just behind him.

He looked back at Wendy. "Where's Eames?" he asked, unable to help but lean his cheek into her hand when she reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. He marveled over just how _real_ she seemed, right down to the subtle grooves in her palm.

"Who's Eames?" Wendy snorted. "It's just you and me, remember? Neil McCormick and Wendy Peterson, the ultimate partners in crime."

It felt so good to hear her voice, to smell her familiar perfume. He wanted to lean into her and not be let go of.

"Where are we?" Neil asked her as she helped him to his feet. He could feel the blood drying on his face.

"Who cares?" she said lightly. "All that matters is where we're going."

"And that is?"

"Wherever we want, of course," she laughed, taking his hand and starting down the street. He could do nothing but follow, entranced by her presence. It was as though she had never left. Her fingernails were painted the same shade they had been the night before in that hotel room. "We can stay like this forever," she said, "just you and me against the world and nothing can stop us."

"But," Neil said awkwardly. "This isn't real. I know it isn't."

"Isn't that up for you to decide?" Wendy asked, gazing at him with her perfect eyes. "So what if this isn't 'reality'? This can be _our_ world. We can live by our own rules down here. We can be together down here. All that bad stuff that happened up there can be the nightmare."

Neil jerked his hand away from her. "You're not Wendy," he said sternly, jaw clenched. "You could never be Wendy. She would never want this… this _fantasy_ world."

"You made me this way," the projection Wendy said, expression turning solemn. "Am I not good enough?"

"I could never make you as good as the real thing," Neil said quietly.

Immediately his beautiful projection of Wendy started to bleed from the chest, right where the real Wendy had been shot in the heart. "Neil?" she said and then dropped to the ground. It brought back such a wave of déjà vu that Neil was momentarily tempted to slam his head into the wall until it went away.

He turned back towards the prison. The guards in the towers had their guns pointed towards the distance and didn't seem to even notice him standing down below. Around him he could see Eric's Gremlin parked halfway up on the sidewalk and missing a tire, could see his own house, could see the outline of the city in the distance. There were a few projections milling about, but none of them close by.

Then, by the wall of the prison he spotted Brian with his bloody nose. He wasn't carrying the baseball bat and didn't seem to mean any harm, but he was still staring Neil down intensely. For a second Neil thought Eames might have forged him, but there was no reason for Eames to disguise himself in Neil's mind where he'd already made a home.

"Where's Eames?" he asked Brian.

"You're standing before every nightmare you've ever experienced hidden behind a weak brick wall, _and_ you just watched your best friend die again," Brian said, "and you're asking where Eames is?"

"Yeah," Neil said, not appreciating the mockery even though he knew it had manifested from himself. "I want to know where he is."

Brian looked up at the prison, tapped it with his knuckle. A piece of the wall crumbled. "He's in there."

"So," Neil said as he crossed the street to the hole in the wall, pausing before ducking inside. "You're not going to bludgeon me this time?"

"You've forgiven yourself when it comes to me," Brian replied, looked over at Wendy, "and you've accepted that she's gone. Now you've just got to face the demons you made on your own."

Neil felt a bit ill over that, but he thanked Brian anyway and wormed his way through the hole into the yard of Coach's house once more.

There was Eames, right about to go inside. Neil called out to him, and Eames approached, looking horrified. Neil wondered what it was Eames had seen until he remembered he was covered in blood. "I'd say I can explain, but I can't," Neil told him, feeling the burn of bile in his throat at the memory itself. It was dark inside the prison, the sky twinkling with stars. He was suddenly very sure he wanted to turn back and leave.

"We don't have to do this, Eames," Neil said. "Just forget it. Let's just go wait for the kick and go home."

"Neil, I don't even know how deep into your subconscious we are. Let's just get this over with. You told me that whatever is causing this destruction to continue is in that house, so let's _go_."

Neil wanted to throw a tantrum, stomp his feet, cry, run, but there was nothing to do but follow Eames to the doorstep. As they approached, both of them could hear the sound of scratching and whimpering, followed by a feeble, "let me out!"

"It's Brian," Neil mumbled. "It has to be."

The door was unlocked, so they stepped inside, and Neil felt like his blood instantly turned to ice.

They weren't standing in Coach's foyer.

They were standing in Brighton Beach's apartment. There were elements of Coach's house (the television, the beanbag chairs, the shelf of photo albums, the mess of cereal crunching beneath their feet), but the layout was definitely that of the other man's. Neil's coat was even hanging on the stand by the door.

"Never seen this before," Eames said, but he immediately fell silent when he saw the look on Neil's face.

"We need to leave," Neil stammered. "We can't be here. It's not safe. We have to get out of here now."

The scratching and crying continued, this time more loudly from behind the wall of what Neil knew was the bedroom. The word SLUT had been spray-painted across the wall in blue. It hadn't been there a moment ago, but it was there now, bright and ugly and so terrifying in its size.

"Jesus," Eames hissed at the sight of it. "What the bloody hell?"

Small fists pounded on the door, cries for help growing more desperate, and Neil was suddenly struck with the realization that the voice definitely sounded familiar but wasn't Brian's. He couldn't recall ever really hearing Brian's voice when he was young, but that definitely wasn't him.

Eames approached the door and grabbed the handle, pushing it open with little effort. It apparently wasn't locked from their side… and even though by the time the door was open Neil had come to the realization of who was really behind that wall, he still couldn't help but stare in shock as an eight-year-old version of himself threw himself into Eames's arms.

The young Neil's hands were bruised and bloody from his attempts at escape, his fingernails broken off. He was still wearing his Panthers uniform and the black sun block under his eyes. It was hard to fathom that he had ever been so tiny, that Eames could lift that small child so easily.

"This… this is the boy from the pictures," Eames said, staring at Neil, the adult Neil. The child Neil looked starved and close to death, trembling a little, eyes unfocused. Neil wondered how much longer he would have survived had they not come down into his dream. If the boy had died, Neil was sure he would have followed suit. It was just something he understood.

"That's me," Neil whispered, but he was looking into the bedroom rather than at the child. It was Brighton Beach's room, but it was Coach's bed. The word SLUT had been written over the entire surface of the walls.

"What is all this?" Eames asked, and even he couldn't hide his horror now, as smooth as he was with his emotions. "Neil, explain this to me because Wendy didn't tell me about this."

"Wendy didn't know about this," Neil replied, feeling as though he was pulled into the room rather than summoning the strength to step inside on his own. He padded across the floor towards the bathroom, and he said to the little boy, "Did I keep you in here?"

It made sense, Neil thought.

He'd connected the night in Brighton Beach with the summer at Coach's house, this confirmation only becoming that much stronger when he and Brian met face to face. He had blamed Brian for tainting his memory even though it had taken place on its own, and he'd felt guilty about that. His guilt had manifested into the Brian who was out for blood after Neil had seen how much that night had damaged him. The small Neil had been locked down in this room since that night in Brighton Beach. All of the uncomfortable feelings, the confusion that he'd felt the first time he'd been touched by Coach—the loss of the majority of his innocence that summer and the rest of it in that bathroom—he'd locked it away so that he didn't have to face it. The child that Neil felt like he had never been had suffered because Neil never wanted to remember he had been even close to that.

Neil didn't want to believe he had been tainted. He didn't want to accept the fact that he'd never had control over himself from the start. The illusion of it on the outside had only caused the spiral inside. When Wendy had been killed, and he couldn't stop it, he really shouldn't have been surprised that his mind rebelled against itself. It was tired of being trapped behind walls.

When Wendy died, Neil lost the strength to hold the walls up. He hadn't protected himself.

The child Neil shrieked and then went limp in Eames's arms as the front door banged open, and Neil turned to see Brighton Beach john barreling his way inside. The man took no notice of Eames, shouting as he rapidly approached Neil, "Slut's going to get fucked whether he likes it or not!"

Neil had faced down Brian (and Coach's memory in the process). He'd come to accept Wendy's death, and while he wasn't sure he could ever tell himself that he wasn't at least partly to blame, he had been sure that she wouldn't want him to dwell on it.

This was the only demon he hadn't yet faced, and Neil still wasn't sure if he could.

Neil had never been so afraid in his life, and he turned towards Eames to find that the bedroom door had been slammed shut on him. Neil was now trapped inside.

"Eames!" he cried out towards the door. He could see the knob giggling, the door jolting as Eames surely slammed his shoulder against it, but then Neil felt the dull throb of the butter knife connecting with his skull, and he was falling into the bathtub, his clothing gone.

The man grabbed for Neil's ankles, but Neil kicked and struggled in an attempt to avoid it, reaching up and grabbing hold of the faucet and then further still. The water rained down on them, freezing cold.

Neil started to cry as one ankle was captured. "Don't, please—there's some things I don't do!" he shouted at the man, but he knew he didn't care.

He wished Wendy was there. He wished that he'd told Eames about this.

Mostly he just wished that he was the Arthur he'd made up in his stories. Arthur would never have gotten caught up in this mess.

 _Arthur is as real as you make him, Neil. You can be him if you want to be_.

Music swelled in the air—it sounded like one of Eric's favorite tapes.

 _You can be him_.

He turned his head towards the beast of a man holding onto his ankles, stared at his mustache and eyes and raging expression, and he kicked him right in the center of his chest.

A moment later, there was a gun in his hand. He cocked it, aimed, and fired into his head, his chest, and his dick.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The world jolted, there was the feeling of falling, and then he was opening his eyes to stare up at the ceiling, his hand clutched by the man lying next to him.


	29. Chapter 29

The light in the room was bright, and the hand in his was steady. He sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face and turned to his right. There was a boy sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a tape player. He was punkish and lanky with a dozen earrings and looked a bit unsure.

After a moment, the name returned to him. "Eric," he said, removing the headphones from his ears and handing them back to him.

Eric's shoulders slumped a little in relief. "You're… still with us, McCormick? Did everything get sorted out?"

The other man on the bed sat up then, removing the needle from his arm. "Neil," the man on the bed said loudly.

He looked at Eric and then turned to the other man. "Neil?" he questioned. "My name is Arthur."

There was a moment of silence through the room, and Arthur felt like it was oddly uncomfortable. He looked from the man on the bed to Eric. Then, a name came to him.

"Oh, and you're Eames," Arthur said.

"Yes, I am," said Eames. "What else do you remember?"

Arthur sat back. "My head's still a little fuzzy, but… I remember that I'm from Hutchinson, Kansas. We're… at my mom's house right now. I usually live in New York with Wendy, but she passed away unexpectedly. Eames, you and I work together."

"What about Coach?" Eames asked hesitantly. "What about Brian?"

"Coach?" Arthur said slowly, staring off into the distance as though trying to pull the image into his mind. "Brian is Eric's friend, but… what coach are we talking about exactly?"

"Good God," Eric said, looking as though he wasn't sure whether to be horrified or terribly, terribly relieved. "He doesn't remember."

"What don't I remember?" Arthur asked, whirling around on Eric. "What the fuck?"

"It's nothing," Eames interrupted so that Eric didn't have to sit there gaping like a fish. "Just little things. Your subconscious had a problem, so I went down to help you fix it. Do you remember any of that?"

Arthur glanced back at Eames and then looked down at his lap. "I… I know there was a house, and… a little boy. The little boy was dying. There was a man holding him prisoner, and he attacked me, but I shot him in the head. I don't remember what he was doing."

Eames swallowed, pursed his lips. "The name Neil doesn't mean anything to you?"

"It sounds familiar," Arthur admitted. "Like… I knew him once before. Why? Is he important?"

"What the hell is happening right now?" Eric asked, looking ill. "I thought you said you could fix him."

"Fix me?" Arthur was starting to grow frustrated with the conversation happening around him, one that he apparently wasn't supposed to be a part of. "Damn it, stop acting like I'm not here. Is something _wrong_ with me?"

Eames got off of the bed, smoothed out the wrinkles in his pajamas. Arthur realized he was wearing his boxer shorts and nothing else. "Eames," he said, "tell me what's going on."

"You're Neil McCormick, or at least you were when we fell asleep," Eames replied bluntly.

Arthur started to respond to that but quickly realized he didn't exactly have one. "Oh," was all he managed.

"You've wiped clean your persona," Eames continued, looking lost and confused. Apparently this had never happened before. "Tell me about yourself, quickly."

"I'm… I'm Arthur McCormick, I'm eighteen, and I work in mind crime with you, Eames. I grew up here, and I really don't know what else you want me to say."

"You've actually done it," Eames breathed. "You've literally become somebody else. You don't remember any of the bad things—anything that made you Neil McCormick. Oh, God." Eames looked away, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. "The child must have died in my arms, and you… Christ, you woke up differently. Fuck…"

"I'm going to be okay, aren't I?" Arthur asked, suddenly feeling concerned. He had felt fine when he'd woken up, but now he was being told that something wasn't right, that he wasn't _Arthur_ , that a part of him had possibly died down below in his subconscious.

"Hey," Eric offered suddenly, "he didn't really remember us right away. Maybe it'll just take a little while for his brain to kick back on, you know? Maybe the best thing to do right now is wait it out." Arthur was sure that Eames would have dismissed the ideas of someone who had never used a PASIV before as ludicrous, but at this point no one really knew what was going on.

"Maybe," Eames sighed. "Let's wait a couple of days and see what turns up. I suppose there's nothing else we can do right now."

"So, I'm going to be okay, right?" Arthur asked more sternly, but all he got for answers were subdued looks of uncertainty.

Well, fuck, Arthur thought.

* * *

Eames left Arthur in the bedroom to explain the situation to those waiting around outside of it, so Arthur started looking through Neil's old things. There was something about the baseball trophies and old photographs that made him uncomfortable, but he didn't know why. The porno magazines were just as bad but for more obvious reasons. He knew that depravity in such anthologies was to be expected, but some of the boys in the pages of the ones close to the bottom looked way, way too young. The sight of these teen boys tied up and being manhandled by much older men made Arthur feel sick.

Neil's clothes were extremely casual to the point of almost laziness, which was weird for Arthur since he'd always considered himself a rather snappy dresser (though apparently that was only for the last hour or so since he didn't exist until then). He put on the nicest of the clothes that he could find—a pair of jeans without holes in them and a pale blue t-shirt, and then he padded down the hall into the bathroom where he trimmed his hair up the best he could with a pair of scissors he'd found. He combed it so it wasn't hanging so heavily onto his face, but he didn't have any pomade to keep it there. He dug a razor out from behind the mirror and shaved with it, nicking himself on the hinge of his jaw. He pressed his thumb to it to stop the bleeding.

Something about _blood_.

He couldn't pinpoint it, but there was definitely something familiar in that particular color of red, drawing to mind fuzzy pictures of a nosebleed, of blood caked to his own face and staining his shirt. He wondered where the images had originated from, but they had faded away before he could even attempt to find out. He realized they must have been Neil's memories, maybe even some of the bad things that had happened to mess up his subconscious.

After he was dressed and moderately cleaned up, he grew a bit bored of waiting for Eames to come back, so he walked into the living room on his own. He was immediately met with the gazes of Eames, Eric, his mother, and…

Brian.

Arthur had known Brian was Eric's friend, but looking at him in the flesh brought a welling up of a whole different slew of emotions. They were connected somehow, were close in some way. He wasn't entirely sure it was a happy association, but Arthur had a strong attachment to Brian somehow.

Ellen stood and cautiously walked over to him, touching the side of his face. "So… you're not Neil anymore?" she asked, sounding on the edge of devastation.

"I don't know," Arthur admitted. "Would you still love me if I wasn't?"

"Oh, baby…" she said, eyes welling with tears as she put her arms around him, "Of course I would. You're still my son, no matter what."

Arthur looked at the others in the room: Eames awkwardly shifting foot to foot, Eric avoiding eye contact, and Brian who was looking at Arthur as though he'd never seen him before except in vivid dreams. The expression made him think of a night, Christmastime…

" _How long has it been since you two last saw each other?"_

" _Ten years… Five months… and seven days."_

"Something happened to us," he said to Brian. "To you and to Neil. Ten years ago."

Brian paled a little, but he nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Do you remember that then?"

"I remember you came here for Christmas to meet me. You wanted something from me," Arthur said, releasing his mother and taking a step towards the couch where Brian was sitting. "What was it?"

"Answers," Brian replied. "I'd remembered most of it by then, but… I wanted to hear it from you."

"Hear what?" Arthur asked softly, and he felt Eames and Eric both tense as if preparing to leap on Brian to stop him from spilling the beans.

Brian must have sensed their discomfort too because he turned and looked at them and said, "He should know the truth about what happened. I know better than anyone what it's like to be tortured by something you don't remember. Maybe now he's prepared to face it, don't you think?"

Everyone stepped back except for Arthur's mother who had taken his hand and was now squeezing it so tightly that it hurt a little. Arthur thought that perhaps she was hearing it for the first time too, hearing something no one had ever said but had had suspicions about for a long time.

"Do you remember Coach Heider? The Panthers?" Brian asked.

Arthur blinked and suddenly, yes, he did remember. He recalled the picture from the drawer in his bedroom, the trophies, the face of the little boy from his dream next to the man Arthur had been too uncomfortable to look directly at.

"He did something bad to us, didn't he," Arthur breathed, gaze distant. His mother squeezed his hand even tighter, and now he could feel her hand shaking.

Brian nodded, squirming a little in his seat, sniffing as if to make sure there was no blood slipping out of his nose.

Brian had been the one with the nosebleed. It had happened when he fell over and hit the floor after they put his clothes back on.

"Oh," Arthur said, almost robotically. "Oh."

Brian looked down at his lap.

No one had to say anything. All of the pieces of the puzzle were there.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a little shakily. "Oh. Well. Yeah. Okay. I mean… it's… it's okay. Well, no, it isn't, but… it's over now."

Ellen started to cry, and all Arthur could do was put an arm around her and rock her gently. "Hey," he whispered to her, "don't. Don't do that. It's not your fault. It just happened, okay? It's all right."

Brian looked at Eames who was standing there looking brokenhearted over the scene before him. "It's better this way," Brian told him. "He's facing it… which I guess isn't something that he did before. He didn't want to admit that it hurt him."

"I know…" Eames said, sinking down onto the couch next to him. "I guess I was sort of expecting him to turn back into Neil though."

"He's still Neil," Brian assured him lightly. "He's just Neil without all the baggage. That scared little boy that died in your arms… he's at peace now. No one can hurt him anymore. Neil is still in there, but this Arthur he's become protects him. He doesn't have the walls. He has a soldier. I guarantee if you went down into his subconscious again, Neil would be waiting there… and when he's comfortable enough to come back completely, he will. He'll show himself in small doses."

"You really believe that?" Eames asked.

Brian blushed, smiling awkwardly. "I don't know," he said. "It sounds nice though… and it's what I'd do if I were him, I think."

Eames paused, thinking it over, and he nodded. "Well, I hope you're right."

* * *

The next couple of days were a bit weird and awkward. Arthur's mother seemed to burst into tears and apologies whenever she'd see him, and Eric and Brian came by every afternoon to see how he was holding up. Arthur would get snippets and pieces of Neil's memory over time, but he really had nothing more to offer them but that.

Eames was bizarrely distant, wandering through the house and smoking cigarettes, only addressing Arthur when he needed to find something. He was cordial and polite, but Arthur wasn't fooled. He knew that Eames was depressed, that Eames was beginning to think that he'd failed, that Eames had lost something very precious to him in Neil.

On the evening of the third day, Arthur leaned in the doorway of the living room and asked if Eames would come back to his room for a minute. Eames, who had been watching Wheel of Fortune with Ellen, looked at his now-asleep couch mate, nodded, and followed him back.

Arthur shut the door, momentarily getting a feeling of déjà vu, and then he turned around. "Eames, were you and I lovers?" he asked.

Eames actually _blushed_ , probably because he hadn't expected the question at all. "I'm not going to mince words with you. Yes, we were. Neil and I."

"That's what I thought," Arthur said softly, looking Eames up and down. He found that he was able to picture him naked, to pinpoint the location and detail of every tattoo, every mole, every freckle. Eames had meant a lot to Neil, more than Neil probably would even admit. No one memorized those kinds of details without caring about the person. "You think what Brian said is true, don't you? That Neil is staying in his subconscious?"

"I don't know," Eames said in a way that most surely meant yes. His poker face just wasn't selling on this night.

"So… are you… angry at him? Do you feel like he's abandoned you?"

"You're quite to the point, Arthur."

"I _am_ a pointman, Eames," Arthur teased, but it fell a little flat. "Answer the question."

"Honestly?" Eames sighed. "I don't know how I feel about the whole thing. I look at you and I see him, but when you move or when you speak it's someone else. I'm a forger, so I'm used to faking it, but—you're not a forgery at all. There's not an ounce of Neil in you, and yet there's so much… I don't know how to explain it. He _created_ you, but he didn't forge you, and if I could just talk to him…" Eames trailed off, visibly drooping before he finished, "I just really want to talk to him. I miss him. I know he's a twat sometimes, but I love him."

There was a beat where no one said anything.

Then, "I love you too, Eames."

Eames looked up, eyes wide. "Neil?" he queried, hesitant.

Neil nodded, arms folding around himself insecurely. "I'm sorry, Eames," he said quietly. "I don't like being me too much these days. You told me that I could be Arthur if I wanted to be, and I think one day I could be… but my body needs to be trained for it, and I know I'd fall back on self-destructive old habits. Even now I want to pretend nothing ever went wrong… but I trust you because you saw what I saw."

"That man who attacked you," Eames said, approaching him slowly. "He's the thing Wendy didn't know about."

"No one knows about it except for you and me. Not even Arthur knows… though he'll probably know when this is over with."

Eames cupped Neil's jaw in his hand and softly asked, "What did he do to you?"

Neil's lips momentarily thinned, and he let his gaze drift off somewhere else before he glanced back at Eames. "He raped me," he said, voice clogged. "In his bathtub. I hit my head, so I passed out after it was over, and he left me on the street."

Eames didn't patronize him by telling him it would be all right or apologize for something he couldn't have stopped even if he wanted to. He just held him, swaying just a little bit in the dim light of the room.

"I can't believe you've actually developed a second personality," Eames said after a while. "That seems like it should be a problem rather than a solution, right? Aren't multiple personalities a bad thing?"

"So I'm a little crazy," Neil replied. "So what? At least I'm aware of it. Besides, Arthur keeps my subconscious fucking clean and organized. I don't think we'll have any problems with it anymore."

"So, you're just going to be Arthur from now on except for moments like this?" Eames asked, pressing a kiss to Neil's cheek.

"I don't really know what I'm doing right now," Neil said, tilting his head back to offer Eames his neck. "I'm hoping someday that me and Arthur will merge together. I think that's possible. I haven't really worked it out yet… but someday I think I'll be one person again. Arthur's still me, or at least a part of me. He holds all the order and keeps me stable because he protects me inside. On the outside, I have you to protect me. I understand if you don't want to stick around though."

"Of course I want to stick around," Eames said, letting his lips linger momentarily over the pulse point in Neil's neck. "Don't be stupid. As long as you're still here, I'll want to stay. I've been so caught up in thinking I'd lost you forever, that I'd destroyed you somehow, but Arthur isn't a replacement or a forgery. He's still you… It's just like Brian said. He's a soldier. He's you without the baggage and baggage or not, I still love you… and even if I never got to speak to you again, if you decided to just let Arthur take over… that would be okay with me. All I want is for you to feel safe and to feel happy and to be at peace. I don't want you to hurt anymore. I want you to be able to sleep at night and to be able to get up in the morning and to do the work that you love and that makes you feel worthwhile."

"I'll get there," Neil said, dropping his forehead to Eames's shoulder. "Someday, I'll get there… but for now I just need some help. I want to have all the good parts of me and the good parts of Arthur. I want his skills and his toughness and all of the cool stuff Wendy and I made up about him… and on my end, I just want… you. Let's face it; you're the best part about me."

"Neil," Eames said, voice shaking a little.

"Just tell Arthur the things he needs to know when you can. He's kind of a stick in the mud, but I'm pretty sure he likes you as much as I do."

Eames squeezed Neil just a little tighter, kissing the top of his head. "I'll take good care of you. Always."

"It's just you and me against the world, Eames. Just you and me… and I trust you with every version of me that exists."

They fell asleep that night, wrapped up in each other's arms, and Neil had the best sleep of his life.


	30. Chapter 30

Epilogue

A few nights after Mal jumped, Neil showed up on Eames's doorstep in Mombasa. Arthur had been working a job down in Mexico, but after the news started traveling that Mal Cobb was dead, Arthur had gone AWOL. Eames honestly shouldn't have been and wasn't surprised. Neil may have met her first, but Arthur was the one who'd grown fond of her over the past several years.

When Neil showed up, Eames could tell instantly that it was him. He wasn't dressed in Arthur's suits that were his proverbial battle armor, and the way he stood was casual and even somewhat slouched. He was also smoking, which Arthur never did, and he'd opted out of the brown contact lenses that Arthur usually sported. Besides, when he was Arthur, he very seldom came to visit Eames.

"Hey," Neil said, hands crammed into the pockets of his jeans.

"I heard you'd gone missing on the job," Eames said.

Neil shrugged. "Not me," he said, tossing his cigarette butt to the ground and stomping it out with the toe of his sneaker. "So, um… Mal's dead."

Eames could tell by the slightest wobble in that sentence that Neil was upset about it. He knew that if Arthur had been the only one devastated by the turn of events, Neil probably would have stayed and completed the job (and likely confused his co-workers with his shift in attitude). Neil never would have been on Eames's doorstep if he had been fine because Neil didn't know how to do anything but run away when he was hurting. He'd never quite outgrown that habit, but Eames had made it easier by giving him a place to run to.

"I heard," Eames said, stepping aside to let Neil in. "I've been expecting you. You want a beer or some tea or something?"

"Water's fine," Neil mumbled, stepping further into the house. Eames's eclectic taste for furniture and decoration always looked bizarre around Neil at first glance, but he always eventually molded into the scenery, a puzzle piece to help complete Eames's life. Whenever Neil would stay he would tan under the Kenyan sun, wandering around without a shirt most of the time because of the heat and grinning as warmly as the day when he would see Eames.

Today though Neil was pale, his expression guarded, and there were storm clouds in his eyes.

Eames returned from the kitchen with a glass of water and sat down next to Neil on the couch. "How are you feeling?" he asked. He knew it was stupid to bother since there was no way he was all right given the circumstances, but he wasn't entirely sure how to start the conversation otherwise. Out of all the people Eames knew, it was Neil (or Arthur) who was most difficult to respond to. Eames could read them just fine, but there were still a lot of secret spaces they liked to hide in during times of trouble. There were times even now that it felt like pulling teeth to get one of them to open up to him, but surprisingly enough Neil was easier. Eames supposed it was because he already knew all of Neil's secrets while Arthur surely had some of his own that he did not dare tell anyone.

Neil sighed, taking a sip from the glass and letting his head fall against the back of the couch. "Arthur shut himself inside my subconscious. I don't think he wants anyone to see how broken up he is about all this, even though everyone knows Mal was like a sister to him. I don't think he ever felt like he quite belonged with my family, and she kind of filled the space there, but… Well, I guess I created him with the duty of a soldier, and soldiers aren't supposed to cry."

"That's bollocks," Eames sighed. "Soldiers can cry."

"Yeah, well, Arthur's supposed to be unbreakable, but I think this has kind of put a crack in his resolve," Neil mumbled, taking another small sip and setting the glass down on the table. He pulled a knee up to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, staring at the floor. "I guess I thought that since you were able to help me when I was falling apart, you could help him too."

"The last thing you need is a third personality, darling."

"I know," Neil huffed, a small, sad smile working its way onto his lips. "I don't think that's going to happen. I just… I thought maybe you could just hook up to the PASIV device with me and go talk to him. I've never been very good at talking about this kind of stuff, and I don't want to make it worse, you know?"

Eames did know. He probably knew better than anyone else on the planet.

"Perhaps it's time you and Arthur stopped playing this switcheroo game whenever you don't want to deal with something," Eames suggested as he got up to fetch the PASIV device from his bedroom. When he returned, Neil had already sprawled himself across the couch, head cushioned by a throw pillow.

"Well, Arthur's never been the one unable to deal with something before," Neil said softly, "at least nothing this big. Sure, he might have been depressed a few times, but this is… this is Wendy for him."

Eames could say nothing to that, so instead he just set the PASIV onto the table and started unwinding the tubing. Neil was more than capable of sliding the needle into his own vein, but Eames still did it for him just because he wanted to touch his skin for a moment.

"It's been four months since I've seen you," Eames said as he hunted his own vein, settling into a nearby armchair that he'd pulled up close to the table.

"I think everyone knew Mal was spiraling," Neil sighed. "Arthur buried himself in work so he wouldn't have to face it, I guess."

"Well, I appreciate the phone calls at least," Eames said, grinning.

"Your dick appreciates my phone calls," Neil replied and Eames rolled his eyes.

After setting the radio timer to start playing at a certain time, Eames depressed the plunger on the PASIV device and sent them both to sleep.

* * *

Eames had no trouble hunting down Arthur, finding him stored away in a very nice hotel room. Neil was there too, lounging on the bed, and that was an odd enough sight considering the two very seldom interacted with one another. Eames momentarily thought of a fantasy he'd had once or twice, but then he decided that now was neither the time nor the place.

"Hello, Arthur," Eames greeted.

Arthur turned from where he was staring out the window, expression blank. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy though, instantly giving him away. "Neil told me he brought you here," Arthur said. "He felt some stupid need to have you check up on me, but I assure you I'm fine. I just… needed some time alone to think."

"Think about what?" Eames asked.

This wasn't the first time he'd gone into Neil's head and met with both of them, but it was a rare enough thing that it was still entirely bizarre.

"You know what about," Arthur replied, walking across the floor a few paces until he remembered he didn't really have anywhere to go. "I'm just… I should have been there. I should have stopped her. It's my job."

Neil watched him from the other side of the room and said nothing, but Eames knew that Neil had felt the exact same way about Wendy's death.

"There was nothing to be done," Eames told Arthur. "You know that. You can't blame yourself for this."

"I knew she wasn't well," Arthur said softly. "I knew something was wrong, and I knew Cobb knew too… but he wouldn't tell me what happened. She kept talking about how her world wasn't real, and even though I knew it was dangerous, I… I didn't try to convince her otherwise. I knew there was no point… and it felt good to hear someone else feel like they were—"

Arthur abruptly cut himself off when he realized he'd said too much.

"Feel like they were what, Arthur?" Eames asked, sitting down on the bed next to Neil. He couldn't help but wonder when and why he'd become the McCormick therapist of sorts. "There's no point in holding it in now."

"If you don't say it I can hunt it down. Your mind exists in the same realm as mine so I should be able to find it pretty easily, and your projections won't hurt me," Neil reminded. Eames supposed that considering Neil was the alternative therapist to himself, Eames was the better candidate.

"Mal felt like her world wasn't real," Arthur sighed, turning to face them, "and that felt relieving, okay? I feel that way always. I wasn't born into reality. I was created here. I don't have a family or an identity that isn't forged paperwork. Down here I am real, but up there I'm not… and sometimes I just want it to stop, but I can't. I exist because Neil created me. He needs me around, and if I were to stay down here, the world around me might fall apart again."

Neil looked away awkwardly.

"Perhaps there's another way," Eames offered. "Merge your consciousness with his. It's been in the plan since the beginning, hasn't it? It's been years after all. Neil, you could handle it now, don't you think?"

Neil said nothing, still giving Eames the cold shoulder.

"I'm perfectly content to merge my consciousness," Arthur replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Nothing would make me feel better than to have this grief shared rather than all on me and to get rid of this feeling of fakeness. I don't have a say in it though because I was created by him. It's his call, and he won't let me."

Eames hadn't expected that. "Neil—" he said, reaching out to touch the man's arm. "Why won't you merge your consciousness with Arthur? You said from the beginning that you wanted to, and it must be terribly hard living with two different personalities, isn't it?"

Neil said nothing.

"I already know why," Arthur said. "He's afraid that if he merges with me, you won't be able to love him anymore because he won't be the same person."

Neil always had been full of surprises.

"Is that true?" Eames asked Neil, even though he knew Arthur had no reason to lie about it.

"This isn't about me. It's about him," Neil evaded.

"Darling," Eames said, tugging him gently until Neil rolled over and looked at him. "Nothing's going to change how I feel about you. I mean honestly… think about how much we've been through. I went down into your subconscious when it was literally crumbling, I picked you up off the streets of New York. I'm still here, years later. Nothing is going to send me away. If you merge yourself with him, it's not going to change you. There will just be new parts in that beautiful brain of yours for me to discover. I love you, Neil. I always will."

"Love is what destroyed Mal. I know it is," Neil said, voice wobbling just a little but eyes completely dry. "How do you know it won't destroy us?"

Eames ran a hand through Neil's hair. "If love was going to destroy us, I'm pretty sure it would have happened by now."

Neil kissed the pad of Eames's thumb as it drifted over his lips. "What if I'm more Arthur than Neil when I wake up?"

"I take pieces with me whenever I become someone else, but I always wake up as Eames. You'll always be Neil, even if there are parts of Arthur in you. You're strong enough to do this now."

Neil sighed and got off of the bed before turning and aiming a gun at Eames's forehead. "I need my privacy," he said. "I'll see you when I wake up."

Pop.

* * *

Eames's eyes opened to the sight of his living room again. He pulled the cannula out of his own arm and then leaned over Neil to check on him. He was still sleeping peacefully.

Eames picked up Neil's water glass and took a long drink from it and wandered into the kitchen to check and see if he had anything to cook for dinner. He figured he could make the chicken he'd purchased at the market the other day, along with Spanish rice. Maybe he could bake a cake for dessert.

The radio started to play, so Eames returned to the living room just in time to see the PASIV timer zero out, and then Neil's eyes were fluttering open.

"Eames?" was the first thing he said.

"Right here, pet," Eames said affectionately. "How did it go?"

Neil sat up, looked Eames straight into the eyes…

…and he started to sob.

"Mal is dead," he whimpered. Eames immediately sat down next to him and wrapped him in his arms, rocking him slowly back and forth.

As heartbreaking as the sight was, Eames couldn't help but be glad for it. Neil never did know how to grieve when he lost people, and Arthur only felt safe enough to do it down in the subconscious where he felt like he belonged. Perhaps now that they'd combined Neil could face it. Perhaps now that they had combined, Neil was complete.

Eames held him and petted his hair and kissed his temple until the tears stopped. He knew there would probably be more of them over the next several days, and quite a few of them might even be Eames's, but he also knew that Neil would be okay.

He'd lost a friend, but Eames wouldn't let him lose himself.

That was why love would never destroy them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who have stuck with me until the end. :) I had no idea this would end up as long as it did, but there you go.


End file.
